


Project W

by Asiera



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternative Perspective, Covers All of Resident Evil (Pre 0-6 & Beyond), Eventual Apocalyptic World State, F/M, M/M, Pre-Mansion Incident, Resident Evil History, Romance, Science Fiction, Survival Horror, Tragedy, Wesker's Story, Yaoi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2014-08-16
Packaged: 2017-12-28 01:41:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 20
Words: 177,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/986150
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Asiera/pseuds/Asiera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The history of the creation know as Albert Wesker, both as a man and a Tyrant, has been shrouded in the darkest shadows and surrounded in the most heinous of atrocities.</p><p>But this is not a story of good verses evil or of right and wrong. This is a story of Albert's true history, one that delves deeply into the darkness of the man's withered heart and soul and reveals the horrible truths Wesker never wanted to be seen by the light of day. These pages contain the secrets of one man's fight for survival in a world being slowly devoured by the same virus running through his own tainted veins and speak of the lengths he is willing to go to in order to continue to breath in the contaminated air. In this fight there are no morals, no chance for surrender or peace, no black and white, only swirling gray mist and the those who have the will to fight through regardless of the consequences. </p><p>Revenge is justice, murder is self preservation, mercy is a death sentence, and power is the only truth.</p><p>Prepare yourself to see reality through the demon's eyes and to understand what it's like to be the monster behind the dark sunglasses.</p><p>If you dare...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. PG00A/W: Prelude

 

Project W: Prelude

PG00A/W

The heart of the man known as Albert Wesker can only be described as a frozen, withered, blackened, shattered thing, incapable of feeling even the simplest forms of human compassion, empathy, and certainly no form of anything even close to resembling love. In all honesty, the man doesn't even consider himself to be a part of the mortal human race he so despises anymore.

In every aspect Wesker is a monster and he enjoys it.

However, there was a time when this was not so. Wesker was not born a sadistic, murdering, B.O.W.. He was not "manufactured" as Lord Spencer claimed. Wesker, the man who had once been human, was viciously molded and shaped in to the twisted creature he is today by the equally unholy organization known as Umbrella and almost every individual who touched him, further perpetuating the slow unstoppable spread of the virus seeping through his tainted veins.

This is the story of what became of the heart that used to beat within the demon's chest; the account of the vicious irrevocable assaults that left it a frozen, withered, blackened, pile of jagged shattered pieces, incapable of caring about anyone aside from himself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be a very long story detailing the ENTIRETY of Wesker's life through the Resident Evil series.
> 
> I'm going to be sticking to major facts and keeping the story as true to the RE timeline as possible (from 0-6 including side game facts) but doing a huge quantity of filling in the blanks and elaborating as well as applying quite a bit of creative licence.
> 
> I'll be focusing mostly on Wesker but many other RE characters will be addressed.
> 
> Okay warnings. There will be: A ton of highly descriptive gore/violence, foul language, and sexual content including yaoi. You've been warned ahead of time /smiles/.
> 
> Main pairings include, but are not limited to: Wesker/Birkin, Wesker/Muller (as in Jake's mom...not Jake...), Wesker/Chris, and Wesker/Krauser.
> 
> ConCrit or any sort of reviews are greatly appreciated.
> 
> Please enjoy,
> 
> -Asiera
> 
> (Note: This story has also been posted on my FanFiction account: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8664148/1/Project-W)


	2. PG01A/W: Crimson Snow On the Eve of Transformation

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ten year old Albert's normal life is about to be forever shattered by Umbrella. The company will stop at nothing to attain the two star members of Lord Spencer's personal experiment: Project W.

 

**Project W: First Cycle**

**PG01A/W: Crimson Snow On the Eve of Transformation**

The popular opinion of everyone who currently has had the displeasure of meeting Albert Wesker is that he was always the sick and monstrous creation he is today. Such is not the case. In fact, Wesker was the perfect example of a normal—well, extraordinary—child, up until just after his tenth birthday. That's when the newly minted company known as Umbrella stepped in and brutally derailed his life, setting him firmly on a new path, one that would lead him down a dark road riddled with countless atrocities committed in both the pharmaceutical giant's name and for Umbrella's ever enduring legacy.

Albeit, Albert was always a little standoffish and distant when compared to the other neighborhood children, but this could easily be described as a shyness or a trepidation rather than the cold uncaring way he now holds himself apart from the rest of humanity. Albert was also extremely competitive, a trait that has now lead him to slaughter hundreds of thousands, either personally or indirectly, in order to come out on top. Back then, Albert's competitiveness was directed wholeheartedly towards besting his twin brother, Alex, rather than world domination. Finally, he was exceedingly intuitive and his current extent of intelligence astounding.

Coming from rather extraordinary parents—a head viral researcher for the Center for Disease Control and a successful CEO of a giant Pharmaceutical company that had recently been absorbed by Umbrella—Albert's greatness was no real surprise. It was hard not to be in awe of the boy who could tackle and best complex conundrums that would leave children five years his senior scratching their heads. To call him a genius would be a bit of an understatement.

Of course, due to all the ways and the ease at which he advanced well above the average or even gifted level, Albert was more than a little impressed with himself, though, not near enough to claim "godhood" over "lesser mortals" as he now believes is his right.

All in all, aside from all his extraordinary qualities, Albert was a normal child, with hopes, dreams, and feelings just like any other. Excluding his occasional rather explosive temper tantrums, he was far from a monster.

Eventually, this would all change. An irrevocable transformation from a boy to a Tyrant that started that cold winter's day thirty eight years ago.

* * *

_December 24_ _th_ _, 1970;_ _Loire Village,_ _France: Silvain Family Estate:_

"Al! STOP!" Alice's sheer, desperate shriek cut across the chilled, snow filled air, but even if Albert had wanted to stop, he couldn't. The grinning boy was happily enjoying the first day of his tenth year by rocketing down the steep slop that made up one of the small hills at the edge of the white coated forest surrounding the beautiful rural town Albert and his family called home. His method of transport, a sleek red sled he had unwrapped mere hours ago, was easily carving up the freshly fallen blanket of white, sending the powdered snow flying up in great drifts around him. Suddenly the leading upturned rungs slammed into the hard, thankfully unyielding, shimmering surface of the large frozen pond which took up a large portion of the estate's grounds. Several seconds later, Albert's new toy slid to a halt, but not before his momentum had carried him to the center of the ice, at least twenty five meters from the shore line.

"Al!" His sister yelled again. There was a hint of panic in her voice, and Albert knew she was worried about him breaking the ice and falling through into the deadly freezing water, but he knew better. It was late December and the pond was frozen solid—okay, not literally, but the layer of ice created by these temperatures this far into winter would certainly hold his weight.

Glancing up, he scanned the slopes through the black tinted sunglasses that had been another one of the gifts he'd received this morning and that he'd not taken off since—they were just like the ones his father would wear on bright days and he was convinced they made him look exceedingly impressive. Eventually his blue gray eyes found what they were searching for: Alice was running down the slop full throttle dragging his twin brother Alex along with her by his probably sore arm. Alex's blue sled was bouncing along behind them as they raced for the shore's edge. Albert grinned, his brother must have stopped mid-race when she'd first started yelling at them that they were too close to the pond. That of course, meant he'd won.

"Albert! Are you alright?!" She called from the ice's edge, fear plainly coating her features. "G-get back her right now!" she ordered in her best attempt at sounding menacing—it wasn't a very good one. The fifteen year old ran a nervous hand through her messy strands of jet black hair. The one's that that had come lose from her braid in the snow ball fight the three had had earlier—something else Albert had won; heavily snow laden trees were much more effective then tiny projectiles alone could ever be.

Feeling particularly pleased with himself, Albert picked up his sled's lead and began walking back towards his siblings.

"Al!" She cried again, causing the bond to stop in his tracks and fix her with a questioning look she probably couldn't make out from her position.

"Be careful..." she finished rather lamely, worry still painting her features.

Albert sighed. He loved his older sister he really did, but sometimes her constant protective behavior towards him and his brother could be grating. Technically, she wasn't even his sibling. Alice had been adopted during the time his parents believed that they couldn't have children, five years before Alex and himself had suddenly and unexpectedly come into the picture.

As such, the difference in features between her and the rest of his family were quite evident. While everyone else had eyes in varying shades of blue, almost platinum blond hair, and pale skin, Alice reminded him of the girl in that silly fairy-tale story their mother had read: Snow White; ebony hair, dark brown almost black eyes, and blood red lips (though that last was probably more due to the lipstick she'd started wearing last year). At least their skin tones were about the same.

For her part, Alice loved being part of the Silvain family, regardless if she was genetically related or not. She felt nothing but love for the two younger brothers she'd helped raise. Well, except for when they did crazy things like sled out into the middle of the pond and caused her bite her already abused nails in anxiety. In those moments, they scared the hell out of her.

Albert considered jumping up and down on the ice to  _prove_  that it was safe but decided to spare Alice and his brother's arm, which she still had a firm hold on, further abuse. Once he'd made his way back to shore he was immediately fussed over and lectured about the extensive dangers of what he'd just done. The way she was making it sound, it was as though he'd participated in some death defying stunt.

Albert sighed, placing a small hand on his sister's arm. "I'm  _fine_." He paused for a few moments to let that sink in. "Are you done now?"

She scowled but then nodded, hugging him. "Sorry. I just don't know what I would have done if something were to have happened."

Alex smirked patting her on the back. "Probably jump in after him. Then I'd be an only child."

Alice winced. It had been a lighthearted joke. Alex was never conniving, unlike Albert who had quite manipulative tendencies when pushed too far into a corner. However, it was bad timing.

"Alexander..." she sighed shaking her head. "What am I going to do with you two?"

Albert grinned. "Take us in for hot chocolate? I do deserve a reward for beating you lot twice in a row."

"Hey!" Alex steamed. "That's  _not_  fair! Ali stopped me so the results are invalid!  _And_  you  _cheated_  in the snow ball fight!"

Albert just continued grinning. "Last time I checked  _you're_ the one who stopped. You could have kept going like I did."  
Alice sighed. "Albert, don't berate your brother for doing the right thing."

Albert just shrugged, otherwise ignoring her. "Furthermore, I did  _not_  cheat. The rules were: Assault your opponents with snow until they surrender. I did just that, only I had the ingenuity to use a tree load instead of just handfuls."

Alex glared. "It's called a snow _ball_  fight. You have to have balls to do it!"

Alice snorted covering her mouth causing the two to look at her incredulously.

"What?" they asked in unison, for once acting like the stereotypical model for identical twins they usually were the farthest thing from.  
She just shook her head, not wanting to explain the inadvertent joke to them. "Look, as far as I'm concerned, you two are both winners since its your birthday and because of all the fun we've been having. Now let's go back to the house."

Albert huffed. "Couldn't you just pick a side? I'm  _obviously_ right."

Alex folded his arms.

"If I pick a side, you guys accuse me of playing favorites," she reminded them, putting a hand on each of their shoulders, "and you're  _both_  my favorites."

Albert smirked. She may have said that, but he was pretty sure he knew better.

Alex was wearing the exact same look.

Suddenly Albert took off at a run. "All or nothing! Race you back to the house!"

Alex broke free pounding after him. "You are  _such_  a cheat!"

Alice giggled. Such was a typical day with the Silvain twins.

Albert slammed into the large oak doors split seconds before his brother did. "Seems I win again," he gloated through his rapid breathing.

"You had a head start! Doesn't count!" panted Alex, his breath coming out in the same frequent white puffs as his brother's.

Albert just chuckled. "I slowed down in the drive to let you catch up, but believe what you want to, Alex. It doesn't change facts." With a shrug he pushed the heavy doors open.

Alex folded his arms across his chest and huffed something illegible as he followed his twin into the foyer.

The two were already more than half way done stripping off their wet snow gear by the time Alice came through the door. She sighed as she saw the growing puddles made by their unorganized piles of discarded jackets, boots, and gloves.

Catching on to her annoyance, the culprits looked over semi-innocently.

"Seriously?" Her eye brow was raised.

"It's our birthday?" offered Alex.

Alice rolled her eyes. "Fine." She bent over to start picking up the forgotten garments. Alice could never say no to her brothers and they knew it all too well.

A door closing upstairs caught Albert's attention. His mother was in the kitchen making cookies and everyone else was with him. This could only mean one thing: His father had returned home while they were still playing outside.

Abandoning his siblings in the foyer, Albert bolted up the curving flights of stairs, down a long hallway, and towards his father's study door. His assumption was confirmed when he pushed though the door and saw the tall figure of his father hunched over the desk, sharp, strong features wrinkled in disgust as he stared down at the huge pile of blank Christmas cards lying across his desk.

"Dad!" called Albert, his momentum carrying him into his father's arms that opened just in time to accommodate him. Alex was only seconds behind him joining the embrace.

Their father chuckled at his sons' eagerness to greet him. He had to admit, having to go in for an "emergency" meeting with several Umbrella executives on today of all days was really pushing it. "Happy birthday boys," he laughed fondly.

He glanced down at Albert who was still sporting his new sunglasses which were now lopsided due to the recent hug. Mr. Silvain sighed in mock disappointment, clicking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I can see you two couldn't wait for me to get home to open your presents."

The twins glanced at each other in an  _almost_  guilty manner.

"Dad," came Albert's accusatory tone, "We  _always_  open our presents in the morning and you  _never_  work on our birthday."

Alex nodded his head. "Why did you have to go in today?"

Mr. Silvain rubbed his temples in annoyance. "It's all this new business with Umbrella. Apparently 'Lord' Spencer doesn't understand the meaning of a national holiday."

"I liked it better when you were your own boss," Albert informed his father.

Mr. Silvain smiled down at both of them. "Me too, but this change will be better in the end, I promise. Things are just a little hectic right now."

"You're not going to be gone tomorrow, right?" ventured Alex.

Mr. Silvain laughed. "Or course not. What kind of father do you think I am?"

This caused identical smiles to beam up at him.

"Now, why don't you two go run downstairs and harass your mother while she bakes, or whatever it is you do?"

They giggled at his word choice. They didn't harass her...well, as long as she gave them ample access to the cookie dough.

"You're not coming?" questioned Alex from the door.

"Ah...not yet..." He glanced down at the daunting task before him. "I have to finish these first."

Albert gave him a quizzical look. "Dad...it's Christmas Eve. What's the point? They'll never get there in time."

Mr. Silvain gave him a rye smile. "Ever heard of overnight delivery?"

They both rolled their eyes and made their way down the hall.

"Oh, and send your sister in would you?" he called after them. " Her semester grades just came in and I want to congratulate her."

"Will do," agreed Albert. Their father had already done something similar for their outstanding grades.

"Ali is so smart," commented Alex as they walked down the stairs. "Just like us, even if she doesn't have super genes."

"We don't have 'super genes'," admonished Albert. "There's no such thing."

"There is so," argued Alex. "I heard Doctor Wesker talking about it."

Albert shivered. He remembered that man. He'd come to the house a few weeks ago talking about some sort of special Umbrella sponsored program for gifted children—in his own words, those with "superior DNA." Dr. Wesker had wanted him and Alex in it, but their father had said no. The typically icily calm man had actually gotten a bit heated about the refusal.

Normally Albert would have been thrilled about an opportunity to show how much further ahead he was from everyone else and jumped on a chance to widen that gap, but, for some reason, the whole encounter had unsettled him greatly.

He could tell when a matter had been resolved, and he was almost certain that this one hadn't been.

Such were his thoughts as they sent an excited looking Alice up the staircase and then continued on their way towards the kitchen

Any unpleasant brooding on Albert's part instantly vanished as the entered the bright lively room their kitchen had been transformed into. The atmosphere was filled with a medley of tantalizing odors created by the various spices and doughs their mother was deftly mixing together into several culinary masterpieces. Her slender figure was moving smoothly between the center island, counter top, and oven, swaying slightly to the pleasant sound of Christmas music flowing through the air that was, if possible, making it all smell even sweeter.

Immediately, the twins were at the center island trying to snag finger fulls of what would eventually be their cake.

"Oh no you don't!" cried Mrs. Silvain grabbing hold of each of her two boys around the middle and lifting them away from the raw dough they for some reason seemed to adore as much as the finished product.

"But, Mom!" wailed Alex. "It's  _our_  cake, shouldn't  _we_  decide how we're going to eat it?"

"He has a point," agreed Albert.

Mrs. Silvain seemed to consider it for about two seconds. "That might be true... if eating it raw wouldn't make you sick!" She then proceeded to tickle the twins into submission, refusing to let up until they swore not to sample the baked goods until they were  _baked_.The peels and screeches of laughter lasted for a good two minutes until they finally relented, Albert holding out a bit longer than his giggling brother.

Both of them pouted as the watched their mother pull a batch of cookies from the oven and then start pouring their beloved batter into the pan for baking.

"Can we lick the mixing bowl?" inquired an ever determined Albert.

Mrs. Silvain turned to her hopeful boys, resting a flower stained hand on her apron that already showed signs of being used as a makeshift napkin on many occasions. She rolled her sparkling light blue eyes at them. "Okay, okay."

They raced for the bowl she now held above her head. "But!  _Only_  if you help me decorate these cookies first."

"Deal!" decided Alex happily, his twin nodding his own affirmation.

The next twenty minutes or so were taken up decorating a seemingly endless quantities and types of cookies, punctuated by laughter, which increased exponentially when a lighthearted Alice joined them, the twins never ending competitions first regarding speed and then quality of decorations before finally switching to both, and of course, singing along with whatever Christmas song the radio decided to present to the merry group.

By the time Albert and Alex had finally set about fighting over what little was left of the cake batter, Mr. Silvain had entered the warm delicious smelling bakery, a look of someone who had been put through unimaginable hardships on his face. It was obvious that his temples were prickling with the start of one of the headaches he was so prone to by the fact his dark lenses were in place.

"And just what happened to you, Alastair?" chuckled his wife.

"Dearheart...remind me again, why do we have such a daunting, never ending list of people with whom which we are acquainted, whose need to feel appreciated by the Silvains  _must_ be sated with a the delivery of a Christmas card by tomorrow morning?"

She only laughed in amusement at her husband's suffering as she went over to him a laid a quick kiss on his lips. "If you'd started last month when I  _told_ you to, you wouldn't be in this predicament now would you?"

He smiled wrapping one arm around her petite waist pulling her closer, ignoring how the casualties from her cooking were transferring to his previously immaculate black suit. "I suppose you're right, Alessa."

Alice giggled as apposed to both Albert and Alex who made a chores of "ews" that didn't fit very well with "Last Christmas" whose notes were currently filling the room.

Alessa fixed them with a fakely scathing look before turning back to her amused husband. "Did you finish?"

The wincing look on the grand features of such a powerful man followed by the tiny, "no," was quite comical.

She sighed. "You need help?"

"Please?"

"Fine. We'll bring the lot down here  _after_  you sample my work."

"Hmm..."Alastair glanced over at the rows upon rows of confections, slight frown over his lips. "Dearheart, you know I'm not crazy about sweets." His frown suddenly turned into a devilish grin his son would one day be infamous for. "Besides," he muttered in her ear, "I'm much rather sample  _your_  goods."

Alessa smacked him semi-gently with a flower covered dish towel sending a white cloud up into the air. Ignoring the mock look of hurt covering his features she relentlessly shoved him towards the results of her morning long labors in the kitchen. "You're hopeless."

"Apparently," he chuckled, taking a bite of one from the latest batch. "Mmm, these are better than last year, I don't feel as though I'm ingesting something originating from an Easy Bake Oven."

She glared. "Keep that up and you won't get any help with those cards."

The newly appointed Umbrella manager raised his hands in submission, one of which still held a ginger snap and refrained from making anymore comments that might derail one of the last happy moments the Silvain family would experience together.

* * *

"All good things must come to an end." Such goes the saying that has haunted and ripped apart countless of the most precious moments in history.

On that Christmas Eve oh so long ago, those infamous words struck again tearing Wesker far away from any hope he ever had of a "normal" life. That was the day the music and laughter were cut abruptly short and a cold permanent winter took up residence in Wesker's heart; the snow and ice forever stained the color of blood.

* * *

_December 24_ _th_ _, 1970; Silvain Family Estate:_

It was late in the evening when the agent of change that would forever alter Albert's and Alex's lives came calling. Late enough that the boys who had, as always, been begging to stay up and prove to their parents that there really was no such thing as Santa Clause, had finally been convinced to go to bed.

Albert didn't know why the ring of the bell had woken him up but not his brother who was equally as light a sleeper or what possessed him to travel down the hall to the balcony overlooking the foyer. All he knew was that he wished he'd never left his bed; that he had just rolled over and went back to sleep. Regardless he was standing there, his slight form at the age of ten hidden by the gigantic Christmas wreath his father struggled to put up every year, and he saw  _everything_.

Albert felt a chill run up his spine that had nothing to do with the cold draft let in as the door opened and had everything to do with the man standing there: Mr. Wesker, a smug look of victory written all over his cold features. His icy green eyes peaking through the delicate square frames of his glasses. Eyes that had always reminded Albert of a snake's unfeeling reptilian gaze, but never before more than they did that night.

"Wesker?" breathed his father in shock. Reproach was clear in his voice and his stance causing Albert's mother who had been hanging back in the hall to move to her husband's side, worry clear on the faint lines of her forehead.

"Good evening, Alastair," came the obviously malice laced reply. It was clear that there would be nothing else good about this particular evening.

Noting the tone of his voice and the nature of his stare, Alistair dropped all pretenses of polite conversation. "What the hell are you doing here, Sebastian? It's past ten!"

The man casting a dark shadow that would never truly vanish over the Silvain's doorstep blocked the closure of the door with a gloved hand, further imposing his presence into their lives.

"Sorry to barge in like this, on Christmas Eve and all," his words were anything but apologetic, they were practically dripping with cruelty, "but I'm here to collect the boys. Project W starts with the new year and it would be nothing without its two star members."

"Albert, what are you doing?" came the whispered sleepy inquiry from his sister who had seen him sneak past her door a few moments ago. "You should be in bed-"

Her admonishment was cut off as Albert pulled her down behind the wreath, not wanting his position to be compromised.

"Al, what going on why-"

"Shhh!" he hissed almost frantically. Fear was building up in his chest causing his heart to begin to race. It was all he could do to ignore the voice he didn't fully understand telling him to run.

Adjusting to her new position next to her brother, Alice to looked on. Immediately she understood why he was acting so strangely: Something was very, very wrong.

Alastair was practically raging now. "I already told you they are  _not_  going to become a part of your and 'Lord' Spencer's ridiculous science experiment! Now  _get out_!"

Wesker only chuckled though their wasn't an ounce of humor in it. "Oh, dear Alastair, you misunderstand me. You see," his hand curled around the cold metal resting hidden beneath his heavy trench coat, its surface reflecting the freezing temperature of his own heart, "you assume I'm giving you a  _choice_  in the matter."

The two small pops that went off from the sleek black object that was suddenly revealed were almost unnoticeable. They were so insignificant; they almost sounded like a toy or some sort of party noise maker.

The results were nothing short of life shattering.

The first gun shot tore through Albert's father's chest clipping the edge of his heart and ripping a hole through his left lung. Albert's mother didn't even get to scream before the second shot hit her straight through her pretty forehead, creating a small hole in the front before exploding into a gory mess of blood, gray matter, and bits of bone at the back.

Both of Albert's parents fell to the floor as if the strings holding them upright had been cut. Only one of them was still attempting to breath.

"Fool," sneered the devil as he stepped forwards and grinned down at the dying man struggling to fill his collapsed lung. "Had you only listened to my request, you could have been a huge asset to the company." He again raised the silenced pistol. "Be sure to give your wife and daughter my regards."

The look of horror in his victim's eyes showing that, even through his desperate attempts to live, the man understood that he was going to kill Alice too caused Sebastian a sick thrill of pleasure before he gave Alastair the same treatment he'd just given his wife.

The great Alastair Silvian's life ended with yet another insignificant pop.

Albert couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't even breath. The red speckled with other bits of gore he couldn't even comprehend that was splattered over the entry way didn't even make sense. It couldn't be real. How could it be? Albert thought he understood death but this...this was unimaginable, unthinkable, impossible! He was in shock in every sense of the word. It wasn't until his sister's scream pierced the air that he began to gradually return to reality, his eyes moving in slow motion from the broken bloody forms of his parents' empty shells to the horror stricken, tear stained face of his sister, her lips parted wide in what must have been some sort of yell.

He needed to run. He knew that. They both did, but his body refused to cooperate even as he saw his sister rising to her feet. Everything was moving much too slowly, his head was fuzzy, his limbs seemed like they were made of rubber, and his world felt like it was imploding around him.

Then it all stopped, the bullet that had flown through his sister's face, splattering him with everything that should have stayed inside her and away from his clothes; never anywhere near his hair; off of his face; not spread across his hands; and out of his mouth, sending him over the edge, falling forever into a pit of icy blackness that he knew would never let him go.

The three sets of boots pounding up the stairs went unheard by the unconscious boy laying in the growing pool of his sister's blood, her body thrown across him in a way that may have been seen as a last ditch effort to protect him, but instead severed as a means to trap him with the dead that would now forever haunt his tainted life.

"Goddammit!" Seethed Wesker rounding on the man to his left as though he was seriously considering pushing him from the balcony—he probably was. "Did you get the boy too?!"

Without waiting for a response, he unceremoniously threw Alice's body away from them so that her unseeing eyes, widened in a look of horror, and mouth, parted in a permanent silent scream, were facing towards the heavens, perfectly visible to all the uncaring eyes in the room that were instead focused on the blood splattered boy.

Sebastian breathed the smallest sigh as he released some of his ever present tension. The boy was unharmed, only unconscious. He frowned. This presented somewhat of a problem. _Why the hell was he even here?_  Wesker shook his head.  _Oh, no matter we were going to brainwash them all anyways._

"Pick him up," He ordered the man he had previously been considering adding to the body count for the police to sort through on Christmas morning.  _What a present that would be..._ he mused.

The man nodded and began roughly retrieving Albert's limp body.

"Careful with that!" snapped Wesker as he stood up, discarding his bloody trench coat and gloves as he did so. "That boy is worth more then both your lives combined!"

The man nodded and revised his tactics a bit, his companion deciding he had better help as his "insignificant life" had been brought into the discussion.

Between the shouting and the less then gentle treatment, Albert began to stir. The first thing the boy noticed was the copper taste. He wondered what the disgustingly spongy bits that seemed to be the origin of the bloody taste were and why they were in his mouth. He swallowed just before his memories rushed back to him, and suddenly he didn't even care about the rough hands picking him up beneath his small arms. He became violently ill first spitting and then heaving what had moments ago been bits of his sister's functioning brain all over the balcony's expensive carpet and the two men lifting him up.

Reacting on instinct, they dropped him, depositing him in a rancid mixture of his vomit and the blood and gore left behind by Alice's body.

Albert's eyes continued to stream as he coughed up the entire contents of his stomach.

Sebastian just raised an arching eye brow. "If there is any lasting damage, I'll be sure to tell Lord Spencer just who it was that dropped him."

If Albert had anything left in his gut to heave up, he would have done so; his family's murder's voice causing his stomach to twist in absolute revulsion.

Sebastian sighed. "Get him out of here and to the facility, just make sure one of you stays and cleans up this mess. I don't want the local law enforcement at my door anytime soon."

Despite his desire to be anywhere but here or at the mentioned facility, Albert's shaking limbs refused to push him up, let alone allow him bolt down the hallway or fight back. Nothing was right; nothing would listen to him. As it was, it was everything he could do to stay conscious.

Without a struggle, Albert allowed himself to be picked out of his own vomit and held at arms length like some dirty, filthy animal. It wasn't until he heard Wesker's next words that he found the will to scream.

"I'll go get the other one," muttered Sebastian in annoyance, running a now gloveless hand through his sleek black hair.

 _No!_  They could  _not_  have Alex too. They couldn't break Alex like they had destroyed him. He couldn't let Alex see this; see their parents and Alice who were so happy only a few minutes ago decimated and reduced to hunks of mutilated flesh weakly resembling the human beings they once were. No. It would be better that his brother die in his sleep then live to see this.

"Alex!" Albert screamed at the top of his lungs. "Alex run, don't look just run!" Anything else he had wanted to say to his unhearing brother was cut off via a quick cuff to the back of his head, this abuse actually coming from Sebastian who was at his limits with the current situation.

"Get the brat out of here," he seethed.

The two men nodded. One of them removed Albert's unconscious body from the premises and loaded him into one of the three black company SUVs parked outside before departing shortly there after, while the other stayed behind to erase any evidence of Umbrella's presence here tonight.

As it turned out, Albert needn't have worried; his brother was never subjected to the same horrors he was. Wesker and Alex left via the rear staircase and came out the back door, driving to the facility in the third vehicle. Sebastian had used his unparallelled manipulative abilities to convince Alex that his parents  _wanted_  him to go with them and be a part of this wonderful program for gifted children when it had actually been their dying wishes for their boys to be as far away as possible from this mysteriously sinister company known as Umbrella.

After all, no need to traumatize the both of them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter (in the beginning) was much too lighthearted for my tastes, but it was necessary even if it won't be anything like the rest of the story or else teenage and adult Wesker would be WAY OOC.
> 
> Yes, Alice was an OC. I will be using OCs to fill random roles throughout this story but they will certainly not be main characters. Also Wesker's parents were of course left completely up to my imagination since they were never mentioned in the RE series. I'm pleased with the results even if they were only around for one chapter.
> 
> I've taken a lot of liberty with Alex's character but since he's never "officially" appeared in one of the games, I think that's fair. For those RE players who don't know what I'm talking about, he's only been mentioned in notes found throughout the games as one of the Wesker Children in the Information Department. He was the Wesker "helping" Spencer to develop a way to "become a god" but in the end betrayed him after apparently discovering the secret to immortal life and leaving with it. All this was mentioned in the notes found during the Lost in Nightmares DLC for RE5.
> 
> As to the name "Silvain," obviously Albert's original last name wasn't Wesker, that title was given to him and all the other children upon entering Project W. I knew that Wesker called himself "S" when working in the Organization following Raccoon City so I decided to assume his real last name started with an S. From there it was just imagination and Silvain was the result-said Sil (like the first part in SILver) and vain like those vessels you have in your arm that I can start IVs in as a nurse. And since Silvain is a variation of Slyvain which is French and Wesker's country of origin is never mentioned, I decided to make him French
> 
> Finally, (man there are a lot of notes here but I swear I'm almost finished) as to Sebastian Wesker, it's a known fact that Project W was headed up by the man it was named after, hence this necessary filling of a character.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this chapter,
> 
> -Asiera


	3. PG02A/W: The First Betrayal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert is determined to escape Umbrella's grasp before it's too late, but the mad dash to get out of the facility takes a terrible turn when he attempts to rescue Alex.

 

**Project W: First Cycle**

**PG02A/W: The First Betrayal**

To be betrayed is one of the lowest feelings imaginable. It's as though suddenly the rug is pulled from beneath your feet and you are left helplessly laying there on the unforgiving ground as everything you believed to be true morphs into the twisted disgusting lies they really were; your world shattered. In the future, almost everyone who knew him and was foolish enough to trust in Albert Wesker would be met by this same life altering sensation as the cold tyrant looked on and laughed, but at ten years of age, Albert had never yet experienced such a thing and didn't fully comprehend what it was. In a matter of days, that would change. Wesker first knew the pain of a knife stabbed deeply into his back, straight through his heart from the only person he had left: Alex.

* * *

 _December 27_ _th_ _; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

It had been three days since Albert's home had turned into a bloody crime scene, three damn days and nothing, absolutely  _nothing_  had happened. Albert had expected, after such a traumatic entry into this new chapter of his life, that things would continue moving at breakneck speed and that Wesker, or whoever the hell was running this insane program would waste no time in doing...whatever it was they were planning on doing to him. If they were willing to kill of his entire family just to get to him and his brother, they must be desperate. He shivered, either that or the concept of human life really meant so little to them. He couldn't even imagine such cold uncaring apathy towards another's existence...yet.

For the first two days Albert had remained in a sort of shock, his body running through only its most basic of needs, deftly following the few orders that had been given to him by the men and women in white lab coats while his mind fluctuated between a blank slab of nothingness that refused to function, to being trapped in that nightmarish Christmas Eve, saturated with blood and the horrid copper taste that accompanied it.

He hadn't eaten, at least not that he could remember, despite the fact that they brought decent meals in three times a day. He'd tried to avoid sleep at all cost because of the terrible images that haunted his "resting" mind. All Albert had been able to do was just lay in the bed provided to him, his tired body slack and useless atop the crisp white sheets he'd never even bothered to untuck, and stare at the unremarkable ceiling as he tried to fight off another instance of reliving his own personal hell.

For all intents and purposes, he was trudging through what was left of his life, no more alive than the zombies depicted in those stupid late night horror shows Alex had convinced him to watch.

He didn't even want to think of what had become of his brother.

It wasn't until day three that Albert's remarkable mind starting to function once again, his impressive intellect kicking into overdrive once he realized he'd been laying here for two whole days when he  _should_  have been trying to escape; get out;  _leave!_

The mental command was so overpowering and consuming, it took all his restraint to not throw himself uselessly against the door and scrabble at the walls screaming like some trapped animal. Instead, Albert forced himself to take a deep breath and slowly examined his surroundings.

The room he'd been confined to was small and sparsely furnished—only containing the bed he'd been lying on, a small dresser, a desk with a single chair, and a surprisingly full bookshelf. The predominating white color and lack of any obvious signs of dirt gave it a sterile feeling. The only doors in the room lead to the small bathroom, the almost non-existent, completely barren closet, and then the one door that would take him out into the hallway he was deftly marched through three days prior.

A quick scan of the walls revealed no windows—not that he'd expected there to be. As he'd imagined, the door was probably his only exit.

Just to be sure, Albert did a much more in depth study of the room. The sturdy door blocking him from the hallway was, of course locked. A closer look showed that it was opened via a card reading device—not something he could force his way through. This place may not have looked it, but as far as he was concerned, his room was a prison cell.

He frowned and moved over to the dresser. It was filled with about twenty pairs of blindingly white tee-shirts and trousers made of a scrub-like material. His frown deepened. He hated white, now more then ever. It was much too easily stained red.

He shook his head barely managing to stop that train of thought. He couldn't afford to shut down again or worse, panic. He needed a clear head.

Glancing down he was surprised to find that he was wearing immaculate garments obviously originating from these drawers. This puzzled him because he didn't remember changing or getting cleaned up, but then again, he didn't remember much from the last forty eight hours.

Deciding to just be thankful he was clean, he moved on to the bathroom. Inside the small cramped space the only moveable objects were a toothbrush, toothpaste, a small plastic comb, a bar of soap, shampoo, and a bottle of conditioner. Nothing useful for escape.

Exiting the restroom, Albert made his way over to the desk which was supporting an unopened food tray, already gone cold. The tray consisted of some unappetizing food—those these days, everything made him think of the last meal he'd heaved up and was thus equally sickening to even consider ingesting.

What  _was_  interesting was the set of plastic silverware contained in a tiny paper sleeve: spoon, fork and knife, obviously increasing in usefulness as he went down the list. He was disappointed that they were plastic and not metal, but the thick material they were made from was more durable then the cheep throw away utensils that were found at most of the fast food restaurants he avoided at all costs. At the very least, Albert believed it was a good idea to hang on to them. He unceremoniously stuffed them in one of the baggy pockets of his current pants.

Like the dresser, the desk was also far from empty. Within it was a thick pad of lined paper, several mechanical pencils, a few containers of graphite, and an eraser.  _What the heck do they want me to do while I'm locked up in here? Study?_

His suspicions were further raised when he saw what books lined the shelves. Everything from history texts to calculus work books. This was just strange. Why in God's name would he be possessed to study after he'd been kidnapped and his family murdered in front of him?

He froze.  _What if I wasn't supposed to see that?_  The guns had been silenced. He'd assumed it was for the neighbor's benefit but what if had also been for his and Alex's? Wesker could have easily led him out the back without him ever bearing witness to the atrocities committed in the foyer.

This was supposedly a program for highly gifted children, an opportunity for them to hone their skills. If that was true, it made no sense to allow the subjects in whatever mad study they were preforming to see the gruesome events leading up to their initiation. Perhaps the other children hadn't even been procured like this. Wesker had "asked" first.

But what kind of gifted children's program warranted  _killing_  to get participants? That was just...well,  _insane_! Regardless, he doubted his brother was stupid enough to buy that his parents had agreed to have him removed from the house hours before Christmas morning just to get enrolled in some smart kids' boarding school. If he had...Albert would be happy to knock some sense into that thick scull of his.

Right, but first things first. He had to get out.

For the rest of the day, Albert waited, silent and scheming, trying to mimic whatever blank expression he was sure had been covering his features while he'd been in his daze.

The men in white coats, sometimes two, sometimes just one, came in at exactly eight o'clock, noon, and then again a four. The preciseness of the scheduling led Albert to believe that this process would not be altered and that he could expect them tomorrow at about the same times. It would have been prudent to prove this by observing for a few more days, but time was not a luxury he possessed.

Upon each visit to his quaint prison they brought with them a steaming tray of food he guessed came straight up from the kitchen. After they had set it down they always examined him, much in the same way he was looked over upon annual checkups at the doctor's office. Then there was a check of his temperature, blood pressure, pulse, respiratory rate and once at 8:00 in the morning, a drawing of blood for what he guessed were either daily or weekly labs.

The scientists—what else could they be—didn't come in during the night, they would only bother to open the door and glance at him in the bed before leaving.

Laying silently in the dark Albert ran through his options. They weren't good. If there were lab draws the following day, he supposed he could get the needle and attempt to use it as a weapon, but what good was a ten year old kid against a full grown adult, even if they weren't expecting it, with only a two inch needle as a weapon? No, that would never work. Even if by some miracle he  _did_  actually make it out of the room, the alarm would be raised in seconds. He'd never make it out of the compound, let alone rescue his brother.

Option two—and this one was better but not great; it still involved an alarm being raised in a matter of minutes: He could hide in the closet during one of the times they brought in food. He'd have to hope the shock of not seeing him was enough for them to forget to shut the door, allowing him to sneak out while they frantically searched the room.

He shook his head.  _Not shocking enough...maybe if I spread some blood around..._  The thought of the bright red fluid pumping through his veins made him shiver despite the warmth. _Man...for the middle of winter they sure keep it warm-_

His thoughts skidded to a halt and he sprung up out of bed, squinting in the darkness, searching the walls for what he was praying was there. His heart sunk when his preliminary search revealed nothing. Refusing to give up he tried the bathroom and again walked out disappointed. He was about to give up and return begrudgingly to the bed when, in a last ditch effort, he threw open the closet doors and peered upwards into the heavy shadows.

There, right in the center of the wall, just before it turned into the ceiling was the grated entrance to the ventilation shafts. Pulling over the chair and standing on his toes to get a better look Albert was overjoyed to find that, though it would be tight, he could fit and better still, the covering was only secured there by four tiny screws that could easily be removed with the silverware they brought him everyday.

Albert had to force himself not to immediately enact his escape plan. He needed time, as much time as possible to find his brother and leave this retched place.

 _Tomorrow night_.  _Right after the Lab Coat's final check._  He assured himself. He would stuff the bed with the horrid white garments from the dresser so they would have something to look at when the stuck their heads in, then he would drag the chair over shut the closet door, remove the grate and get the hell out of this place, stupid naive brother in toe.

* * *

_December 28th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

The waiting, it was  _killing_ him and it wasn't being quick about it. Rather it was slowly draining away at his last reserves of patience and sanity; dragging minutes into painstakingly long hours. Had Albert had any less self control he would have just given up and fled to to the shaft hours ago, away from the oppressive confinement suffocating him under sickening amounts of white.

After what felt like an eternity long lesson in patience, evening fell and the smothering presence of the scientists assigned to him was removed for the day.

Albert's breath hitched in his throat as he forced himself to wait a few more moments and listen intently to the men's steadily retreating footsteps and meaningless chatter. Once he was  _sure_  they were gone he sprung out of bed and quickly but silently crossed the floor to the dresser. He then proceeded to remove arm fulls of the white garment out of the drawers and stuffed them beneath the blankets, readjusting them until he was satisfied that it would fool anyone who glanced in to check in on him.

Once that was done, he quietly picked up the small chair and carried it into the closet, then started the arduous task of removing the screws holding in the grate. This was further complicated by how dark it was in the little white room and his lack of a very effective tool: The side of the plastic spoon they'd delivered with dinner.

After about ten minutes filled with more struggle then he had anticipated with his makeshift tool, the last of the screws popped out but it still seemed the grate was held in by something. Becoming perhaps overly concerned, he pulled harder than he should have, the metal bars giving way and sending him off balance and painfully into the side of the closet. If he hadn't caught himself there and then, he, the grate, and the chair would have crashed to the floor, no doubt alerting his guardians that something was wrong in the room.

Cursing himself for being so careless, Albert slowly pushed off the wall with his now throbbing arm, righting himself and the chair which was holding its weight precariously on two of its four plastic legs. Once he was sure he wasn't going to fall, he gently set the metal ventilation covering on the floor and shut the door plunging the little room in complete darkness.

Working only on touch, Albert located the open vent emitting a steady stream of warm air. Now came the hard part: Hoisting himself up into the shaft. Albert had always been more competent in the intellectual areas than in physical ones. As his small arms shook with the effort involved in lifting himself off the short chair into the vent, he wished he had worked at developing the latter a little more.

Once he had actually got himself up into his escape rout, he realized how many problems were involved with this hastily put together plan. The tiny passage was unbearably cramped, dark, and hot. Albert had never viewed himself as particularly claustrophobic, but forced to crawl through this metal passageway, filled with suffocatingly hot air, that could easily become his tomb, when he couldn't even see his own hand in front of his face was causing his heart to race in fear and his breathing to become slightly erratic with panic. This, accompanied with the stress involved in single handedly finding and rescuing his worthless brother and then escaping the facility housing the dangerous individuals who had killed his family without even blinking caused Albert to momentarily lose it and start frantically trying to get out, his useless thrashing further increasing the feeling that he was permanently trapped.

It was a miracle he forced himself to lie still and calm his breathing, even more of one that he started forwards into the impenetrable blackness, away from the entrance he'd just lifted himself through. He had no idea where he was going in this hellish maze, he didn't have a clue where his brother was being held, and he was completely lost about where the exit to this facility would be, but he knew that staying put was not an option. He had to continue. It was the only hope he had of ending this nightmare.  _No other choice_ , was the mantra he kept repeating to himself as he moved blindly through the blackness.

When Albert came to the first shafts of dim light shining up through the slits of a downward leading vent, he knew he had to get out here. He couldn't take anymore of the labyrinth he been lost in for what felt like hours. By now, his arms were red and slightly welted from the now painfully hot metal surface of the vent he'd had to slowly crawl over, his eyes were red from dryness and the fearful tears he'd been unable to hold back, and the panic in his chest had risen to unbearable levels.

As he moved over to the great he saw what looked like an empty office room—though honestly he wouldn't have cared if it was a room filled with the people who had brought him here; he was getting out  _now_. Instantly his red fingers wrapped around and tugged and pushed at the unresponsive metal separating him from some minor form of freedom. When it didn't give at all, an even stronger bolt of terror ran through him.

This vent was was held in place by screws too.

How could he have been so flagrantly  _stupid!_  He'd left the only tool he had to remove them back in the closet, tossed carelessly on the dark floor—not that he could see how he could properly maneuver it from the wrong side of the vent anyway.

He was really terrified now. There was no way he could find his way back to the room and the longer he stayed in this hellish shaft, the more the pressure built in his chest, squeezing relentlessly around his racing heart. He  _knew_  if he didn't get out  _now_  he was going to die.

He now accosted the non-budging metal with his fists, no longer caring if he made a sound. Then suddenly, miraculously, the grate gave a bit. The screws were tiny, maybe, with enough force, he could force them out. But his tired burnt arms weren't going to cut it.

Forcing himself to move again, he positioned himself so that he was completely over the grate, imposing all his weight on its thin surface. He felt the metal strain under the force he was exerting on it, but it still refused to break, he even tried bouncing up and down on it as much as the inclosed space would let him.

Nothing.

He was really panicking now, the white cloud of fear fogging up his mind causing what little rational he had left to slip away, replacing it with a blind franticness that would get him killed.

Albert winced his eyes shut, refusing to give in. He would  _not_  die like this. His eyes would never become the disturbingly glazed over lifeless orbs that had stared blackly up at him out of his parents' and sister's bloody faces. Forcing the fog to clear, Albert attempted to think his way out of his situation.

A few seconds later, he groaned and commanded his aching arms to again propel him forwards until he had halfway traversed the blocked opening. Wincing, he turned until he was laying on his back, his hips just resting on the edge of the grate. He then bent his knees until they were wedged against the top of the shaft, his feet planted firmly in the middle of the thin metal bars. One more deep breath and then he pushed upwards on his knees as hard as he could using the entire strength of his body to do so, the unbending frame of the shaft causing all the force to be transferred to the screws holding the covering in place. The increased pressure on his forearms and knees caused the heated metal to sear painfully into them, but Albert didn't stop. He was beginning to feel the cover give way.

He was getting out of this death trap.

Several pain laced seconds later, the screws were stripped from their slots, the grate came loose, and Albert felt himself falling with it. Unable to stop himself, he and the grate crashed to the floor, blood spilling from the jagged cut on his left forearm he'd received on the way down from the sharp metal making up the lip of the shaft.

Willing himself not to cry out, he put pressure on the wound even though he'd much rather have been holding his head which had banged against the side of the desk as he fell. The gash was long and rather nasty looking, but thankfully, not that deep. It was certainly making one hell of a mess though.

Albert allowed himself to lay there for a few minutes as the pain in his head subsided and he listened intently for footsteps or other sounds of alarm, cursing his deep urgent breathing for being so unnecessarily loud.

Nothing.

Could he have really been so lucky?

Shaking his head, he got up, his wobbly feet causing him to have to grip the desk for support. The increased throbbing in his scull made him to wince his eyes shut. He was going to have a very nasty bump there tomorrow, in fact he'd probably sustained a concussion.

Once the worst of the pain had passed and he was fairly certain he wasn't going to topple over, Albert began searching through the desk that had tried to cave his skull in for something to stop the bleeding.

What he discovered was even better.

By some gigantic stroke of luck, Albert had landed in one of the data collectors' offices and, sitting on top of a pile of huge folders, was a list of all the children in the project and their basic information, including to what  _room_  they had been assigned.

It only took him moments to locate his brother's name, committing the number two hundred sixty four to memory.

"I'm coming for you, Idiot," he growled under his breath before making his way cautiously out the door and into the dimly lit hallway.

* * *

_December 28th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

The sets of door ridden hallways reminding Albert of a hospital hallway from a horror film surrounded the area where his brother was being kept and looked identical to the one he'd been marched down. He'd have been surprised if the multitude of doors did not lead to carbon copies of the "room" he'd been trapped in. However, there was one  _big_  difference: These children were anything but confined.

The narrow areas connecting the various doors to one another were littered sporadically with kids ranging from just a few years old to being in their early teens. All of them were smiling, laughing, and talking, acting as if  _nothing_  was even the slightest bit amiss.

This congregation of mindless morons infuriated Albert for several reasons. First and foremost, that so many people could be so blatantly clueless.

His second reason involved the fact that all these idiots made it impossible to move around unnoticed. It was true that anyone who saw him would probably just mistake him for one of their own or even his brother, and while Albert was highly skilled in the art of mimicking Alex to a T, he didn't want to have to explain the blood, the burns, or the ripped dirty clothing. He wouldn't even begin to know how.

As if stood, getting seen was the equivalent of getting caught.

The third and final reason was also the most enraging. It was simple: Alex was free; free to leave his room; free to go where ever he pleased; just plain free. Yet, despite Alex's vastly greater ability to to locate and rescue his brother, he had sat around on his worthless bum and, as far as Albert could tell, done absolutely  _nothing_.

 _He didn't even attempt to find me!_  Seethed Albert as he sat steaming in the dark, his injuries alternating the signals they sent to his brain between sharp jolts of pain and a dull aching throb.

Currently, he had taken refuge in a broom closet and was sharing the tight space with a variety of cleaning supplies, all letting off a variety of heavy chemical smells that were giving him an even bigger headache on top of everything else.

There was nothing he could do for the moment besides wait for the jabbering imbeciles to clear out. Well, besides sit and fume.

Even if Alex  _was_  naive enough to believe Umbrella's lies about this so called "gifted children's program," Albert imagined he'd have noticed that his twin brother, someone who was equally if not more intelligent than he was  _nowhere_  to be found

A cause for suspicion? Albert most certainly thought so.

It wasn't until much later in the evening that things began to quiet down. According to the clock in the hall, Albert had waited to cautiously venture out of his hiding place until well past nine.

He was beginning to get anxious about how much longer his ruse would hold up. It'd been several hours, what if someone looked too closely? Noticed the chair was missing? Or randomly decided to do a much more in depth check in on him? What if they found the office with the broken vent splattered with his blood?

Albert picked up the pace. He had to hurry if he wanted this to have a chance of this working. Thankfully, Alex's room wasn't that much further off. There was still hope.

* * *

_December 28th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

Alex had finished getting ready for bed and had only just tucked himself under the sheets when his bloodied, injured, bedraggled brother barged into the room slamming the door behind him and throwing his panting body against its white frame.

Honestly, Alex didn't recognize him at first. Albert had never looked so panicked or ill put together in his life. On top of the blood and the burns coating his arms, his torn clothing, and horribly disheveled hair, Albert looked thinner than when he'd last seen him and his eyes, rimmed with deep circles, had a haunted frantic look to them that was almost bordering on animalistic.

Alex's worst fears had been realized.

He had to force his words out of his suddenly dry throat as he stood to face his brother. "A-Al...W-What happened to you?"

"What happened to me?" hissed Albert in pure rage, somehow managing to keep from screaming. "This place happened to me, Alex! While you've been sitting here doing God only knows what, I've been risking my life trying to find you! Do you see these?" He held up his burnt cut arms. "I got this crawling though a vent!"

Alex winced. "Why..." He took a deep breath. "Why were you crawling through a vent?"

"To rescue you, you twit!" he raged.

"From what?" Again with the almost pained questions, like he already  _knew_  the answers.

"From Umbrella! From Doctor Wesker! From the people who killed our parents!" He was being louder than he should have been and he knew it, but he couldn't help it. Every look on Alex's face, every response was leading him to an answer he didn't even want to fathom.

"..."

The lack of emotional reaction, the blankness of the stare Alex was fixing the floor with, the wincing expression...it was too much.

"You...you knew...?" breathed Albert in shock.

Alex shook his head dejectedly. "I assumed."

Albert was on him in seconds slamming him painfully into the wall. "What do you mean 'I assumed!' What kind of answer is that?! They  _killed_  them all, Alex and you're just gonna sit here like you're okay with it?! What in God's name his wrong with you?! Were you just going to forget about them?! Forget about  _me_?!"

Alex didn't couldn't meet his gaze.  _He'd never understand...I don't have a choice..._  "I-I thought they'd killed you too, Al." He was shaking now. "I thought there wasn't any reason to fight," he gasped out, tears starting to fall from his eyes.

Albert softened, his painful grip on his trembling twin's arms loosening. "It...It's okay, Alex. We're going to get out of here." He was becoming determined again. "We are going to get out of here together."

Alex meekly nodded, still not meeting his gaze. "How? How are we going to get out of this?" He was pleading, begging Albert to give him some solution he hadn't yet seen.

Albert shook his head. "I don't know, but-"

It was then that the two heard the hard rapping at the door, followed split seconds later by a concerned voice. "Alex! Alex, are you alright? We heard shouting."

Albert started to panic. He was so close, so damn close to getting out. Why hadn't he forced himself to stay quite?  _This is it, we're done..._

Alex grabbed his brother's arm, pulling him from his racing thoughts. "Go!" he hissed. "Hide in the closet. I'll get rid of them."

Albert nodded and bolted for the tiny room that was the mirror image of place he'd started tonight's crazy journey from and where it would soon end as well.

Albert tried to calm his heavy breathing enough to hear what his brother was telling the alarmed men, but he couldn't manage it. He was terrified. Could Alex really convince them that nothing was wrong? Did they still have a chance of getting out?

Albert's questions were answered by the only words he was able to make out: "In there."

The sickening feeling that overtook him at those two words was more painful than anything he'd gone through so far tonight. It left him more empty then the darkness he'd crawled through; was hotter then the metal that had seared him; sharper than the jagged edge of the vent that had cut him; it was more earth shattering then the blow he'd revived to the head; it was even worse then seeing his family's unseeing eyes staring up at him.

It broke his hope and his heart all in one blow: Alex had betrayed him.

He didn't even have time to react before the closet door was thrown open and two sets of hands accosted him.

" _NO!_ "He screamed, all his anguish coming out it that one word as he uselessly struggled; kicking, hitting, and biting anything he could get a hold of, but they wouldn't let go; mercilessly dragging him from the room, away from his brother who still refused to look at him.

"Alex  _why?_!" Albert wailed. "You  _traitor!_  They killed our parents! They killed Mom and Dad and our sister! They fucking killed Alice! Her brains and blood were all over me!"

He had completely lost it now. He barely heard Alex's next words. "Don't you get it, Al? This is the  _only_  way." And it was, Alex had figured out the night Dr. Wesker had taken him away what Albert could still not begin to comprehend: There was no escaping Umbrella and the only way to survive was to play their games.

Again Albert let a feral scream rip through his throat as his body writhed. "I'll  _kill_  you! I swear to God, Alex! I! Will! Kill! You!"

By now many tiny faces were staring at the scene, mixes of fear and curiosity covering their features. Of course they would do nothing to assist him. Instead they looked on, viewing Albert more as a wild animal than as boy who would have given anything,  _anything_  for help.

No one moved.

"How dare you?! How dare you do this to me?! You're own brother! Your  _TWIN_! I came here to  _save_  you!"

The battered men were now holding him to the floor yelling for help; help that came in the form of a needle carrying a potent dose of sedatives.

Albert felt the needle enter his neck despite his best efforts to jerk away. The effect was instantaneous. His vision started to blur and swim, his mind began to cloud over, and all the strength in his limbs just melted away.

It was all he could do to make one last tiny strangled cry followed by barely discernible words. "I won't forget this, Alex. I will  _never_...forget...this..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so goes the violent separation of Albert and Alex. In the next chapter, things move deeper into Project W, another Wesker Child who will be an important character in the future comes in, and we finish up Wesker's childhood arch as well as this story's First Cycle. 
> 
> I hope you are all enjoying the story so far,
> 
> -Asiera


	4. PG03A/W: Lost Memories & Remembered Nightmares

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His illusions of escape from this nightmare are gone, but even after everything that has happened, Albert couldn't imagine the atrocities waiting for him and every other Wesker Child in the depths of the Umbrella facility. With no recourse, Albert is forced to place the entirety of his life in the hands of a complete stranger.

**Project W: First Cycle**

**PG03A/W: Lost Memories & Remembered Nightmares**

Memories: Arguably they are what make us who we are. They define our past, dictate our present, and shape our future. Without them, would we be the same person? Experience the same emotions? Carry the same dreams?

An interesting conundrum; one that Wesker will never really know the answer to. For even if one were to lose the memories of their past, it would be impossible for them to answer such questions on their own without them.

With no past to anchor them and only a dark cloud of nothingness to look back on leaving them with infinite questions and no answers with which to sate them, it is no wonder that they will cling desperately to the first tangible truths presented to them regardless of consequences that follow.

* * *

_Early January; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

Albert didn't even attempt to move. He didn't pull uselessly at the metal cuffs chaining him to the small metal bed frame in what looked to be a hospital room nor did he attempt to use his "brilliant" mind to come up with another escape plan. What was the point now? It was far too late for that.

Alex had ruined everything.

Albert winced his eyes shut, trying to keep his sluggish mind, slowed by the chemicals leaching through his system, from revisiting those horrid memories in which everything he'd ever known had been shattered.

If he was so brilliant, why hadn't he foreseen what had happened? Why hadn't he been able to stop himself from being forced so low? From becoming so helpless?

He arched his head back, pressing the painful inflamed bump against the hard cold metal beneath him. It was too much and he couldn't take it anymore. He just wanted it to stop. He didn't care how.

Letting out some tiny sound halfway between a cry and a sob, he allowed himself to slip back into the blank nothingness whatever drugs they had him on were urging him towards and waited for Wesker and Umbrella to finish whatever twisted experiment they had begun.

He laid there, staring at the unremarkable ceiling, apathy flowing through him like an ever present disease, pumped steadily through his veins with each beat of his tired heart, its persistent activity recorded with quick quiet beeps sounding from the monitor attaching to his chest. This uncaring became his existence, lasting for hours? Days? Weeks? Seconds? He didn't know; didn't care either.

He liked not caring, it was easier than the opposite state of mind, but something was making him care again, forcing him to rise from the nothingness. He didn't like it and tried to ignore the prickling sensation at the corner of his mind.

"Stop..." he moaned deliriously, trying to twist his head away from whatever was pulling him from his drug induced apathy. "Just leave...me alone..."

If anything, the jarring pull away from nothingness got stronger and more determined.

"Hey!" came the urgent hissed whisper. "Come on! You gotta get up!"

All Albert managed was to turn his head to the side. At first he thought the wall was talking to him which, even in his befuddled state, didn't make sense. Then he noticed the grating by his head with a shiver, but it was only a thin panel separating his new room from the next, not a wretched shaft. Why Umbrella wanted the air in the two rooms to mix he didn't have a clue, and between his headache and the fuzziness in his brain, he didn't even attempt to understand it.

"Come on!" begged the girl's voice. "Please, please get up! We don't have a lot of time..."

Albert was eventually able to focus on the dark silhouette resting on the other side of the grate, in particular the nervous pair of icy green eyes framed by long locks of fiery red hair. Her words were spoken in English and carried a significant accent. German maybe? It took him a moment from his brain to switch over.

"W-what...?" he muttered in the second language he'd mastered at only seven.

"Oh thank, God," she breathed. "Here, take this!" came the hurried whisper as she used her free hand to push a once crumpled and then refolded tiny piece of paper towards him through the metal slats.

"Why?" he blinked in confusion, attempting and then finally managing to sit up. "What is it?" A few seconds passed. "Who the heck are you?"

She sighed, wiggling the tiny folded piece of white in front of him as if doing so would entice him enough to grab it.

When she got no response, she decided she'd have to explain. "I'm just another kid, trapped here, same as you, and that's," she jiggled her proffered note covered paper, "that's as much of my life story as I could get down in a day..."

Albert, if possible, seemed even more confused, deciding to pull at the chain binding him rather than taking her worthless piece of paper. "Why would I what that?" he muttered in an annoyed fashion.

"You're  _not_  listening to me!" she hissed. "Look I don't know how it happens or why they're doing it, but they are taking us, one by one and doing..." she scrunched her nose up, trying to find the right word. "...s-something to us."

Albert snorted slightly at her weak explanation.

She scowled. "The guy who used to be exactly where you are came back yesterday with  _no_  memory. Nothing. We'd been talking for days and he didn't remember a thing about me, this place, or his past."

Albert was listening now.

"Same thing happened to the girl on my right. I heard her screaming earlier today about not knowing where she was or why she was here." The girl shook her head. "I don't know how, but they're wiping us clean. Better to mold us I guess," she spat venomously.

"Anyways," she directed her striking eyes back to him, silently pleading. "Please, please take this. I'd hide it here, but I'm afraid they'll find it when they come to get me. I know their schedule. I know they'll take me in a few hours but..." she was tremblingly slightly. "I don't want to forget them...forget my mother and father and...and everyone."

She took a deep breath. "Once they finish, they'll bring me back here to recover. After they leave me alone, you can give it to me, so maybe I won't lose everything."

She was begging him and it suddenly made him feel some of the hopelessness he'd been wallowing in start to seep away. He had power over this; over this girl. This was something he could do, a small blow against the force that had shattered him. He was about to accept her offered treasure but stopped, his fingers inches away from the flimsy piece of paper.

"No."

Her eyes widened in fear and shock.

"Not unless you do the same thing for me."

She relaxed. "I-I'm sure when I get back, after you give me that piece of paper, I'll do it. Even if they take me away before you come back, I'll find you somehow and give it to you. Okay?"

Albert glared, he'd already been double crossed once today...or how ever many days ago that had been. "How do you know? If you don't remember your promise, why would you keep it?"

She was really desperate now, he could hear it in her unsteady voice. "I-I know myself, and everyone knows what fair is. Trust me, if I'm anything like the others, I'll be desperate for answers. I'll do it."

Albert's scowl deepened. "I don't trust anybody."

The girl was about to retort but managed to keep it together. A few pained moments of silence then: "What's...what's your name?"

"...Albert. Albert Silvain," he respond suspiciously.

She smiled and retracted the paper. "How do you spell it, with a y?"

He shook his head. "S-I-L-V-A-I-N."

She nodded, scribbling something in a small free space at the corner of the page before holding it up so he could see. The words, 'Trust Albert Silvain' were just visible in the dim lighting. "Well, Albert, my name is Laura, Laura Muller—that's spelled like 'Muller' but pronounced 'Mueller.' And anyways, I trust you." With a smile that was nothing but pure generosity and eyes as trusting as his sister's had been, she dropped the little bundle containing her life followed by the stump of a pencil she'd used to write it and the remaining leafs of paper she hadn't been able to fill through the grate.

Albert was silent for a while before wrapping his hand around everything that would be left of Laura Muller after whatever was about to happen to her.

"Thank you," she whispered.

He nodded just as the group of men in white scrubs and surgical gear came through the door to take her.

Watching the uncaring scientists drag Laura away was one of the most most horrible things he'd seen so far—right up there with the rest of the atrocities that had happened over the past few days. To her credit, she put up one hell of a fight; nearly twisting her arm out of its socket in an attempt to get off the table and slam the hunk of metal into them. Of course, in the end, it was a useless endeavor. They had dragged her away; carried her screaming at the top of her lungs to an operating room where they would preform some form of crazy experimental surgery that would leave her mind a blank slate; a perfect canvas for whatever they wanted.

It gave Albert an almost calming sense of power to know that he held the only key to stopping this process.

He hesitated, he wanted to read what she'd written but it felt like a perverse invasion of the girl's privacy. Besides, it was probably sappy and incredibly reminiscent of a soap opera. Not that his would be much different.

Albert suddenly froze. What the hell would he write?

Glowering over the sudden blank his doped up mind presented him with, Albert began viciously contemplating what he would record on the two measly scraps of parchment. Each trip down memory lane was more painful then the last. There were so many happy priceless memories he'd shared with his, by now, rotting family; each one of them now ruined and meaningless after Umbrella's and Alex's treachery.

What did it even matter if he remembered how he'd felt when his dad had first taught him to ride a bike without ever using the training wheels? Why would he care in the future if he remembered how his mom would hold him when he'd came into his parents room after having a nightmare? Would the memory of his sister teaching him to play his favorite song on the piano with her infallible smile and never ending supply of patience for his once clumsy movements even be the same?

He shook his head. No matter which words he used, he could never convey on paper, or later to himself, the rich, powerful extent of those precious moments or of the emotions and value behind them.

They'd just be empty shells; pretty coatings to nothingness.

He felt rage well up in his chest at this injustice. Then instantly, it clicked.

Maybe he couldn't translate the joy or the happiness, but he could make himself remember the pain; remember the fact Umbrella had destroyed his life and that his brother had left him for dead and then delivered him to the monsters trying to kill him.

The hate took over and Albert pushed everything joyful, loving, and beautiful from his mind, only allowing the filth and agony to flow from the dull pencil tip onto the now permanently tainted paper. Only one thought echoed throughout his entire being justifying his actions: One day, he would get his revenge.

* * *

_Early January; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

It was finished.

Albert stared down at the small pages filled with nothing but pain, hatred, and the his commanding desire for revenge. At the moment he didn't even regret that he would never remember any of the love that had filled his life before Umbrella's destruction of everyone he had once held dear.

It will never be truly known if Wesker would morn this decision to forever seal his heart off from the past. Not even Wesker himself is aware of the answer as he now no longer even remembers his choice.

Right now, it didn't really even matter. Stuffing the material that would shape the rest of his life under his shirt along with Laura's memories, he let the drugs circulating though his system to win, once again taking him back to his previous state of blank mindlessness as he waited for what would be left of Laura to return.

* * *

_Early January; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

After several hours—though honestly, Albert's sense of time was too disturbed for him to even venture a guess—Laura came back. She was wheeled through the door into the tiny room by a team of four "doctors" on the same metal bed she'd been taken away on.

It reminded Albert of an autopsy slab.

By the time Albert he had managed to pull himself from his stupor, the adjacent room had fallen silent, the only sound penetrating though the darkness being the two's breathing—one slow and deep, the other hitched and shallow—and the steady soft beeping of their heart monitors, each painting a very different picture.

He mentally cursed as he sat up and the cuff chafed painfully on his already inflamed wrists. Albert peered nervously into the dimly lit room on the other side of the small grate. He could just make out the silhouette of her body, her chest slowly rising and falling rhythmically with each expansion of her lungs. He was pretty sure she was unconscious, but he needed to talk to her  _now_. He had to find out if what she'd told him was in fact the truth.

At this point, both logic and fear were trying to convince him that an outcome such as she had described wasn't even possible. How could some procedure permanently remove someone's memories? He'd heard of some rare cases from his mother where extensive damage to the hippocampus from either trauma or disease had caused bizarre alterations in memory function, including one individual who had lost all memories of his past as well as his ability to create new ones. But such procedures weren't tested—for obvious reasons. The brain was still largely a mystery that, when meddled with too severely, had more potential to cause devastatingly debilitating side effects than to systematically and effectively block out a person's entire past.

Such thoughts in mind, he was almost scared to wake her up, but what else was he going to do?

He was tired of waiting in the dark.

"Laura," he called tentatively.

No response.

"Laura, please!" he insisted more adamantly.

Again, only the beeping of her monitor.

"Tsch." He was suddenly very impatient. He understood that she'd probably just been though some traumatic operation accompanied by large doses of anesthetic agents, but that currently paled in comparison to his bordering on desperate need for information.

"Laura get up!" he snarled as loudly as he dared, punctuating the command by tossing the little stub of the pencil at her shoulder.

It worked. She was starting stir. After about ten minutes in which their roles from when they'd met earlier had been completely switched, with Albert being the one begging her to come out of her drug induced sleep, she became fully aware of her surrounding again.

"Wha-" She was really coming out of it now, forcing herself to sit, supporting her weight on her elbows as she tried to reorient herself. Her panicked glancing around the unfamiliar room became more and more frantic as everything she saw only succeeded in adding to her confusion instead of comforting her blank mind.

When she discovered the chain attaching her wrist to the bed she nearly panicked.

"Where am I? What's going on here? Who are you?" Her questions all came out in a rush and not in English. They were also much too loud for Albert's tastes.

"Shh!" he ordered, the strength of his voice actually causing her to cease with her frantic line of questioning, stop pulling uselessly at her binding, and stare up at him with her terror filled green eyes.

More German, but at least it was quieter.

"English," he told her firmly.

It too her a second but she nodded. "Please," she begged in a way he could understand her, "tell me what's happening." Her words all but confirmed his fears. As crazy as it sounded, Umbrella had found a way to completely remove someone's memories causing total global amnesia.

"You don't remember anything do you?" he questioned darkly.

She shook her head fearfully, only some of her once magnificent red hair falling into her pale face. The entire right side of her head had been shaved, making visible the still angry red curve of a stapled incision line which rested like a crescent moon a few inches above her ear. The thought of what had caused it and what cranial alterations lay beneath the surface of the future scar was horrifying; even more so because Albert knew the same thing would be happening to him very soon.

"No...n-nothing," she nearly sobbed. "I don't...I don't know who I am."

Albert shivered. Her lack of any form of the most rudimentary of memory was chilling.

"You're name is Laura Muller," he respond in a monotone. He had hoped that the sound of her name being spoken might jog something, but the confused way she continued to stare at him dashed those dreams.

Taking a deep breath as he mentally prepared himself to eventually be in her same position, he finally spoke. "We're...experiments. Experiments for the pharmaceutical company called Umbrella. They kidnapped us and, as far as I can tell, hundreds of other children and brought them to this facility."

"Why?" She pleaded, panic again rising in her trembling voice. "And why can't I remember?"

Albert shook his head. "I don't know. They said we're special, that we have 'superior genes' or some such nonsense. I don't know what they want with us.

"As to why you can't remember anything...You told me...only a few hours ago, that they take us and do something to wipe all our memories clean. Again, I don't know why."

Laura touched the still painful mark on the side of her head, barely managing to wince as her sluggish brain tried to comprehend the vast amount of information that had just been imparted to her in only those few unemotional words.

"What...what about my family? I've got one haven't I? What happened to them?"

Albert looked away, pained expression covering his features. "I...I don't know. I would assume they're dead. They...killed mine when they brought me here."

Laura covered her mouth, eyes wide with terror. A small strangled scream came out of it as tears began to flow down her face.

"Y-You're l-lying!" she cried causing Albert to jump at her volume. "That c-can't be true, it just can't!"

"Shut up!" he hissed. "Do you really want the men who did this to us to come back in here?"

Laura fell silent and shook her head rapidly.

Albert sighed in relief when he didn't hear the approaching sound of footsteps. "Listen. I have proof. You gave me this." He held up the tightly folded paper. "You told me to give this to you when you came back from...whatever they did to you. I didn't read it, but you told me it was what you could get down of your life story."

Laura grabbed desperately for it, shoving her fingers through the grate.

Albert held it back causing her to whimper. "I'll give it to you, but you have to do the same for me." He held up his own precious bundle of recorded memories. "I need you to hold on to this when they take me and," he swallowed, "return it to me when I come back." He paused to make sure she fully understood." Can you do that?"

Laura nodded. "Yes...I can, now please..."

Albert nodded and passed her the object she was frantic to obtain followed by his own final words to himself as Albert Silvain.

He sat there in silence, head resting against the cold metal of the grate as she read, just listening to her small cries as her eyes moved over and over the already worn pages.

"I-I don't re-remember any of t-this," came her eventual whisper. "N-nothing."

Albert sighed nodded his head before sticking his small fingers through the grate.

She looked up at him, her sparkling eyes still watering. "A-are you A-Albert Sil-Silvain?"

Again he nodded and then she too reached her fingers through the tiny bars, holding his hands as best she could. "I'm...I'm scared." She whispered almost inaudibly, resting her scared head against the thin wall separating them.

"Me too," came his own embarrassingly meek voice as he pressed his forehead to the metal.

They just stayed like that for hours, drawing comfort from that poor excuse for an embrace neither of them was willing to end. She would let out a small pitiful sob occasionally, and each time he would squeeze what little of her fingers he could reach in what he hoped was a reassuring gesture.

They were both trapped in the same sinking ship. Each of them were frantically searching for solutions; for hope in this bleak situation and against the ungodly forces they were powerless to fight.

They were still clinging to each other as best they could when Albert heard the footsteps approaching; heard his door being unlocked and then pushed open; felt the cold air from the hall wash in, clinging to the group of masked individuals whose souls were of the same temperature.

He couldn't bring himself to look at them.

"No..." Laura let out another sob, her thin fingers digging into his own flesh so hard it hurt and the tiny nails drew blood.

Albert couldn't help but hold on tighter as well even though he knew it wouldn't do either of them any good in the end. In the last moments before the gloved hands grabbed his shoulders, he locked eyes with her; iron blue searing into pure emerald.

"Don't forget your promise."

He let go.

Albert didn't even attempt to fight as the masked men pushed him back down to the cold surface of the metal table that had been serving as his bed and held him there. What was the point?

He was smart enough to know when he'd lost.

The only sound he was able to process over the pounding of his heart as they wheeled him out of the room were Laura Muller's sobs as she called his real name one last time.

The smooth transition down the maze of twisting empty hallways to the cold unforgiving operating room seemed instantaneous.

Though he knew escape had become impossible at this point he couldn't help but struggle slightly as they transferred him over to the operating table and locked his wrists and ankles in place with restraints.

As he had thought, pointless.

By now he couldn't even accurately interpret the meaning behind the short exchanges between the men who were looking down at him more like he was a thing to be toyed with and manipulated to their twisted desires rather then a child so paralyzed with fear that his little heart was beating out his his chest.

Albert felt one of the few women in the room force a plastic mask over his face making it impossible not to breath in the intensely sweet, chemical smelling gas flowing through it. He tried to turn his head away, to shake the device off, but her grip was like a vice and his efforts did nothing.

Again he felt it, felt his mind slipping away to nothingness as though he was sinking slowly into a sickeningly thick black liquid. It was so much more powerful than it had been before but he uselessly struggled against it, spurred on by the reality that if he allowed himself to go under, when he awakened everything that made him him would be gone.

His life flashed before his eyes one more time before it was all wiped clean. The last thing he saw before his vision blurred the world beyond recognition were the uncaring forms of the scientists above him, various unidentifiable objects held it their hands, the entirety of their sinister silhouettes burned into his dying mind by the blinding operating lights.

Thus ended the last line of Silvain and began the Wesker legacy.

* * *

_The First Cycle Meets Its End._

_From the Remains of Devoured Coils, the Serpent Begins Again..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so is introduced another of the Wesker Children and Jake's mom all in one fell swoop. I hope you enjoyed yet another one of my original takes on Wesker's history. Laura will continue on as a very important character in the Third Cycle and will be reintroduced then out of obvious necessity for the existence of Jake Muller/Wesker
> 
> Just a fun medical fact: Surgical approaches to the hippocampus normally involve a stereotaxic approach which would only leave a small scar on the top of his head tinier than a dime where the needle would be inserted and then maybe the marks from where his head was held in place with a device via pins, but I wanted a more dramatic scar hence the lateral entry point /smiles/.
> 
> That was the last childhood Wesker chapter thus the ending of the First Cycle of Project W. Next one we'll be time skipping to age 16 and his initiation into Umbrella's Research Division (technically he should be 17 but since I made his birthday so late in the year, to keep things in the timeline sound, he has to be 16).
> 
> Thank you for reading,
> 
> -Asiera


	5. Falling Angel 01: The Price of Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert isn't the only one whose life has been turned upside down by Umbrella, Alex's has also gone to hell. On top of coping with the fact he had to betray his twin in order to save him and trying to survive through Umbrella's many atrocities, Alex has to deal with the head of the project, Sebastian Wesker who has suddenly taken a very personal interest in the boy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to my first bonus chapter. Throughout Project W I will be throwing these in between the chapters of the main story line giving you guys a different view on events happening around, but not necessarily focused on Wesker. Alex is only one of the characters that will end up having his own little side story by the end of this. I hope you enjoy

**Project W: Falling Angel**

**First Plummet: The Price of Devotion**

_December 28th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

Alex felt horrible; worse than he'd ever felt in his entire life as he sat there in the pitch black darkness, alone on the edge of his bed. He could still hear his brother's screams echoing impossibly loud in his ears; mercilessly reminding him of his "betrayal."

_"Alex_ _**why** _ _?! You_ _**traitor** _ _! … They killed Mom and Dad and our sister! … Her brains and blood were all over me!"_

Alex gripped his pounding head with shaking hands. "I'm sorry..." he whispered. "I'm sorry, Albert...it was the only way..."

_"I'll_ _**kill** _ _you! I swear to God, Alex! I! Will! Kill! You!"_

Alex winced his eyes shut, the combination of his twin's chilling promise and the terrifying look of absolute rage on the face of the boy he'd spent his entire life beside, forever burned into the ten year old's consciousness.

_"How dare you?! How_ _**dare** _ _you do this to me?! You're own brother! Your_ _**TWIN** _ _! I came here to_ _**save** _ _you!"_

"That's why I did it..." he murmured, far too distraught to cry. "You're my little brother," he explained to the oppressive, silent darkness around him. "I did it to protect you..." Alex let a long shaking sigh escape his small body. "Maybe one day...you'll understand..."

To be forced to do something like that, to the only person he had left...it was unbearable, and it was far from fair, but since when was being an older brother fair? Even if he was the eldest only by a few minutes, for as long as Alex could recount, he'd been watching out for his, by far, much more emotionally ruled brother.

It had been like this since they were infants—according to the now rotting corpses that were his parents. When the twins had been born, Albert's delivery hadn't gone as smoothly as his own and had subsequently, left his younger twin in a much weaker state; one the doctors hadn't had high hopes for.

In a last ditch effort fielded by some under published study, Alex had been placed next to his poorly thriving twin in the little NICU box nurses there liked to refer to as a crib. This reuniting of the infants that had spent nearly thirty seven weeks together in utero had suddenly and unexplainably turned things around and the Silvains had got to take two identical blond haired bundles home instead of one.

As one might have guessed, despite the constant fighting and ever intensifying competition blossoming between the two, they were quite inseparable; a bond which had proven quite useful in evening out there very similar yet astoundingly different personalities.

Where Albert was hot tempered and made choices based on what his, at times, unpredictable internal compass told him to do, Alex ran almost entirely off of cold, hard, unalterable logic, and, as such, had served as the voice of reason on multiple occasions when things became chaotic. He had the ability—rather unhoned at this age but it was there—to partially block out his emotional side and function solely on clear undeniable facts; something Albert could never do.

It was this tendency that had lead him to make the impossible choice he did and the reason why he'd turned his brother over to the Umbrella scientists. It wasn't betrayal in his mind—even if that's all Albert could ever see it as and subsequently hated Alex forever—it was just the only course of action that made sense and would ensure the longest period of survival for the two of them; unless of course, Albert continued to mess things up.

That was the problem with making plans that involved others; they never seemed to want to go along with it. Albert certainly didn't.

Alex's nails dug into his scalp, drawing tiny beads of blood as he again relived his brother's rage filled pleas—yes, Alex could see them for what they really were, a desperate last ditch cry for help to the brother he viewed as having just condemned him. It felt like a cold iron hand was constricting around his heart and Alex felt waves that were a mix of doubt and guilt crashing over him, making it hard to breath.

He shook his head, currently messy, platinum blond locks becoming even more disheveled. He'd made the right choice; the  _only_ choice.

That night; the night things had all fallen apart, Alex hadn't been near as oblivious as his brother had imagined. He'd been awake for everything too, and while he didn't see it, he was smart enough to fill in the horrifying blanks. Sometimes imagination was worse than reality.

For his brother to believe that he'd left the room without Alex noticing was folly. They were both light sleepers and they'd been sharing the same bed for as long as Alex could remember; probably since birth. Of course he'd felt Albert getting up and had heard him leaving. At the time he'd thought nothing of it.

Part of Alex wondered how different things would have been if he'd listened to that little nagging voice in his head telling him something was terribly wrong and had followed his brother down the hall. Logic told him that in the end it probably wouldn't have made a difference and might have made things worse. Still he entertained the thought. Maybe if he had of snuck to the balcony with Albert, his brother wouldn't hate him right now to the point of swearing Alex's death at his own hands.

He shook his head dejectedly. It didn't matter. The past was the past and could never be altered no matter how strong one's foolish wishes to the contrary. The fact remained that he'd stayed under the warm covers of their bed, pushing aside the unsettling feeling in his stomach that something was amiss.

Then he'd heard his sister's bloodcurdling scream; an unearthly wail cut so abruptly and unnaturally short that all will to move and act had been driven out of his small body by mad, uncontrollable fear; one which had chilled him to his very core.

After that, all he'd been able to do was sit there, frozen underneath the blankets, bare feet inches from the cold wood floor, ears straining to hear something,  _anything_  above the deafeningly loud pounding of his racing heart.

It had been Albert's unheeded pleas that had confirmed his darkest fears and only one thought raced through his mind:  _They're dead._

When he'd heard his brother's frantic voice suddenly silenced as Alice's had been, Alex had lost the will to function;  _Albert's_ dead, the only thought filling his entire existence.

He'd just sat there like a statue, only reentering the world when Sebastian, the man he'd quickly identified as the culprit for everything dark and heinous that had just occurred, including the murder of his twin, had invaded his room.

Alex wasn't stupid. Even in his state of shock, he hadn't been foolish enough to ask what had happened or where his family was. In Alex's mind, they were dead and he was soon to follow. It wasn't until the tall, devilish man, clothed entirely in the deepest black had made him the offer to come with him to Umbrella and enter into this, "Project: W" that he'd begun to realize he wasn't slated for death too.

To live, all Alex had to do was play Mr. Wesker's and Umbrella's twisted games.

So that's what he'd done.

Perhaps this made him cruel or uncaring, but Alex supposed it didn't matter. Right now, he was alive and so was Albert.

Oh God had he been relived when the twin he thought he'd lost forever had come running through that door...of course, the relief had been short lived.

Going against Wesker and Umbrella? After what Albert had actually seen what they were capable of? It was madness! Two ten year olds with no resources, no help, and no useful survival skills would either quickly be recaptured or, more likely, gunned down like Alice and their parents had been for standing in the company's way. The only way out—and it was a long one—was to stay in. Lay low, follow all the rules, and buy their time until the right moment; something that could be years or even decades in the future. Whenever it would be, it certainly wasn't here and now. Albert was off to a very bad, very dangerous start.

Alex of course had wanted to explain all of this too him; to make him see, but time had not been on their side and he'd never gotten the chance to try.

Alex choked out a breath, his throat suddenly constricting in panic. What if he'd gotten him killed? What if Albert had already proven to Mr. Wesker that he was too much of a liability and Alex had turned him over to his execution? They already had him, did Mr. Wesker really need Albert too?

Alex was jarred abruptly from his unpleasant thoughts by the sound of his door opening for the second time that night, though this time, it had to be unlocked. Unfortunate that Umbrella no longer fully trusted him or at least was taking precautions but it was to be expected-

Alex froze when he saw who it was that stepped over the threshold.

For a while the two just stared at each other, Alex's eyes inescapably locked on the the man who had killed basically his entire family and completely uprooted his life. He hated him; no  _loathed_  him. Even that wasn't a strong enough word to describe how much he despised the almost unnoticeably smirking demon before him. And yet...and yet he couldn't help but admire the demon. The power Mr. Wesker held over his life; over his brother's...it was awing. And the way he'd just taken the lives of the people closest to Alex without even the slightest bit of remorse, as if it was nothing, was so cold it was nearly unreal; no,  _inhuman_.

Alex wanted that power; wanted that ability to control; to no longer be at the mercy of everyone around him as he was now. It was true, this desire to gain such ability at the cost of becoming the creature he hated most both sickened and frightened him, but how else was he to survive? How else could he possibly save Albert? Alex knew at that moment that in order to win this battle, he had no other option. He would turn himself into the devil sneering sweetly down at him; become Wesker. It was the only way out.

He steeled himself. Alex was good at games; at duels of cunning and logic. He was good at predicting and countering the moves and very thoughts of his opponents. This was something he could do. He could win this; the price of losing was far too steep to even contemplate.

White did always move first and it was clear which side his appointment was on. Alex spoke; the action tentatively but firmly placing him on this new chess board where the rules were still a complete mystery to him.

"Is he dead?"

The words were cold and unfeeling, exactly how he wanted them to be. Alex didn't have the luxury of allowing himself to feel disgusted by what had just slid past his lips. He wasn't playing for cheep prizes or just the satisfaction of winning against his brother. He had just started a game where the wager was not only his life, but the life of the twin who swore to kill him. Showing any sign of weakness was not an option.

Mr. Wesker quirked an eyebrow in response, shutting the door in a way that reminded Alex how trapped he was on this dark path he'd forced himself to traverse. "I suppose you mean your brother," his keeper bantered, walking languidly over to the small ten year old growing up decades faster than he should have been.

Alex nodded. "Yes, that was who I was referring to," came the almost bored sounding reply.

Sebastian stopped a few feet in front of Alex, regarding the boy critically. Alex had gone in seconds from practically shaking in despair and guilt to perfectly composed. If Sebastian didn't know better, he wouldn't associate this calmly staring child with the one he'd been watching on the monitor for the last thirty minutes.

Alex could act well, no,  _very_  well. Interesting.

"No," Sebastian admitted eventually. "He is currently alive."

Alex allowed no sigh of relief to escape his lips; he swallowed it, along with every other emotion building just beneath the surface.

"I see." A safe end to that little inquiry.  
Wesker's use of "current" was meant to make him squirm, but it didn't. Either they were going to try to use Albert as leverage against him brother—in which case Alex should act as indifferent as possible—or, Wesker and Umbrella could care less about Alex's own actions in regard to Albert's fate. If that was true, it wouldn't matter what he did and Umbrella would have already disposed of Albert had they wanted rid of the liability. Wesker wasn't lying either—unless he was really,  _really_  good—Alex was quite adept about detecting those sort of things.

Albert was alive and, if Alex could help it, would stay that way for a long, long while.

Several minutes passed in silence, the intense emerald stare boring deeply into him, threatening to break his carefully, but unskillfully formed continence.

"I believe in fair play," stated Sebastian falsely, breaking the staring spell as he sat down on the bed beside the ten year old.

It was such a ridiculous lie that the repressed urge to scoff nearly overpowered the intense desire to squirm away from his family's murderer and his brother's torturer.

When Alex didn't respond, Sebastian continued. "I answered your question, now you answer mine."

It was a command, not a suggestion.

"Seems reasonable," Alex agreed—as if he had any choice in the matter.

"Tell me," crooned Sebastian, a gloved hand moving to harshly grip his shoulder—Alex gave him none of the reaction he'd most likely been searching for, instead choosing to look directly into those cold green eyes; pools of poison held back behind silver frames.

Sebastian's hand faltered on Alex's shoulder; the sign of the first small victory the boy made against the snake beside him.

"Tell you what?" inquired Alex smoothly.

Alex didn't miss the slight twitch of his left eyebrow. Too emotional; just like his brother this would be easy to-

Wait...he was smiling?

"Why did you turn your brother in?" Sebastian prodded smoothly, his smirk widening. "You're not a coward Alex, that much you've just made clear to me; so why? He was your twin, the bond you share—or should I say  _shared_  was undeniable from the information I gathered on the two of you."

He...he... A mental deep breath. Alex didn't give the man enough credit. This would be nothing even close to simple.

"Logic," Alex answered honestly after carefully weighing his options.

The grin got toothier. "Oh...you'll do wonderfully," he crooned, squeezing Alex's shoulder tightly before getting up and moving to the door.

"For what?" Alex found himself blurting. This was certainly not going well. He was losing, it was obvious.

Sebastian stopped, for a moment before looking haphazardly over his shoulder, twisted grin still firmly in place. "Oh my dear boy, you're perfect for this project. None of the other members have shown near the potential in the last few days you've displayed over the past hour."

Alex, forced a look of perplexity onto his features.

Sebastian shook his head. "Oh you are good, but don't think I can't see straight through you—though your sheer tenacity and resolve are quite astonishing for one so young. Not to mention we've had our eyes on you since before you entered this facility." He gestured to an unremarkable shadowy corner of the ceiling.

Of course they had cameras in here! How could he have missed that? His thoughts froze. Than they knew of his brother's escape long before Albert made his way here and did nothing to stop it. Was this all some test? Had he really been playing this twisted chess match before he knew he was even a pawn on the board?

The answer was, yes, and it scared him more than anything else tonight had. His weapon and only advantage had been cast aside and mocked for its inadequacy and again he was at the mercy of the man before him. Sebastian probably hadn't even bought his act about not knowing a thing about what had gone on in his family's estate on the night of Christmas Eve.

Satisfied by the poorly hidden look of defeat on the boy's face, Mr. Wesker continued. "Even that wall you've put up can't hide your hatred of me; that fire could melt steel. Yet despite your emotions—your desperation to save your brother and destroy me—you choose to beat them down, saving logic for your only companion.

"We— _I_  always knew you and your brother would be some of our best subjects, but this is simply extraordinary. For a child of only ten to be so calculating and perceptive...nothing short of marvelous. I could not ask for a better specimen."

Alex couldn't prevent the visible widening of his steel blue eyes to which Sebastian only chucked.

The man towering above him leaned nonchalantly against the door frame. "Come now, don't look so surprised, you were doing so well with your mask."

And dammit if he hadn't just lost.

"Fret not, child," he crooned mockingly to the terrified little boy sitting on the small bed, trying desperately to hide and bury everything beneath the surface. "In my hands, you will be molded flawlessly into the star member of Project W."

"And...Albert?" he inquired cautiously, knowing all illusion of pretenses had long ago been shattered.

"Oh, he will have his purpose; they all will." He turned again to leave, this time, not looking back. "Comparing results between you two very special boys will be simply thrilling."

"What do you want from us!" Alex couldn't help but call to Sebastian's retreating form.

He paused only briefly, hand on the doorknob. "Simple, child. We want to change the world."

With words Alex couldn't possibly hope to accurately decipher at the moment, Wesker left him alone, defeated and shamed in the darkness, wondering if there was even the slightest possibility that he could win this twisted game.

* * *

_January 1st; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

It was four days, four long days before Alex heard anything from Sebastian or the rest of his Umbrella employed captors. Alex spent each of those hours staring up at the blank ceiling trying uselessly to come up with a plan for how he could possibly win this game against Mr. Wesker, but the man was too cruel, controlled, and cunning for Alex to even hope to manipulate.

The boy shivered despite the amiable temperature the room was kept at.

Never before had Alex ever come across someone like Mr. Wesker. He put the skills Alex had honed and placed up on a pedestal to shame, making Alex feel more inadequate and foolish than he ever had in his whole life. Sebastian had humiliated him more soundly that anyone—his twin included. He  _hated_  it and it made the defeat sting even more knowing that still, he had no way of besting the man.

As it was, he just had to ride this storm out; something that, with his and his brother's lives in such a precarious position, was extremely difficult to do. Not that he had another option. Alex looked over at the door that had remained sealed ever since Mr. Wesker had left him here. It was more a symbolization of how utterly trapped he was within this mental chess game than a necessary precaution; there was no escaping Umbrella now, a fact Alex was all too aware of.

When that door finally did open again, Alex knew something awful was coming; the steel bed reminding him of an autopsy table with the attached wrist shackle undeniably confirming it.

A group of three tall men clad in white lab coats approached him and in calm but no uncertain terms, ordered him to get on the bed.

Alex didn't struggle; there was no point. That, and he hadn't missed the tasers attached to their belts, no doubt for the less observant children who became terrified—as they should in this horrible situation—and tried to run or fight back to avoid whatever atrocities were coming to them one way or another.

Even knowing the futility of retaliation, it took some effort for Alex to remain motionless when he felt the sharp pangs of panic clawing at the inside of his chest as the poorly padded iron cuff clicked closed tightly around his wrist.

He didn't whimper or ask questions as he was wheeled down the pristine hallways into a much darker portion of the facility. He just lay there unmoving, forcing his breathing to stay slow and steady but not forgetting to remember ever turn and detail around should the situation arise where such information would be crucial.

His calm demeanor was certainly a pleasant surprise to the scientists dropping him off in his new temporary cell, however, it was one that would not last. Even Alex's glassy composure couldn't withstand Umbrella's assaults forever. Sooner or later, it would shatter, just like everything else had dragging the ten year old's sanity with it. Just...not yet. No, it wasn't until later that evening once Alex had figured out just what Umbrella was going to do to him that he felt himself begin to lose it.

First it was the boy across the hall from the dark room he was being held in. A few hours after Alex had heard him being wheeled back into his little cell from wherever the doctors had taken him, the boy started sobbing loudly about not knowing who he was or remembering anything until the doctors hurried back into the room. Whatever they did shut him up; Alex never heard another peep.

For a while, Alex attributed that strange event to being just some random happenstance; nothing worthy of note, though creepy as hell. Then he heard a girl somewhere down the hall screaming her lungs out over the exact same thing and Alex felt some of her uncontrollable panic transferring over to him.

By the time the boy in the prison next to him had started begging the Umbrella workers tending to him; asking the same chilling questions, Alex felt himself start shaking. It was as though the trembling flowing over his body was causing all the carefully constructed walls inside of him to crumble into dust and robed him of the ability to breath properly. This was no random event, this was a systematic wiping of the minds belonging to ever child Umbrella had collected, his brother and himself included.

It wasn't really the terrifying ability Umbrella apparently had to rob individuals of their most precious sacred possessions: Their memories, that was causing absolute panic to well up inside of him. Alex wasn't even thinking about the fact that he'd lose all recollection of his parents, his adopted sister, his entire life up until this moment, and even the events that lead to his abduction into this facility. What was causing Alex to lose his previous unbreakable will to cope and play along with Umbrella's and Mr. Wesker's games was the fact that he would soon lose every memory he possessed of Albert and forget what he himself had to do to ensure his and his brother's survival within this monster that had swallowed them.

Alex knew that there was nothing he, a defenseless chained ten year old, could do to prevent this perverse invasion of his mind by the skilled hands waiting in the OR. Logic said all he could do was just lay here, waiting for the unthinkable to happen, but Alex just couldn't do that. For the first time since Mr. Wesker and his men had taken him from his house, Alex started fighting back, and oh did he fight.

The struggle to get out of the unyielding metal handcuff was futile. All of this was. Alex knew this, but he couldn't stop. Despite the unyielding amount of effort he'd placed into keeping control since the moment he'd thought his brother had been killed and he'd lost all hope, true terror overtook him. He didn't care that the cuff wouldn't— _couldn't_  come off or that it was digging mercilessly into his flesh with each frantic pull. He didn't care that escape was impossible.

Everything that had happened over the last week or so had finally driven him over the edge, the thought of no longer being able to do his job; to protect his younger brother serving as the final push. Now he was airborne; free falling away from solid ground made up of logic and commonsense, plummeting uncontrollably through irrational panic and desperation.

It could  _not_  end like this. Alex would die before he let that happen. Not that Albert would fare any better should that occur, but Alex was well past the stage of reason.

By the time the doctors got to Alex's room, the boy had completely torn up his left wrist, while trying to uselessly escape his shackle. The damage was bad enough that bright crimson was splattered all over the metal bed and ruby flecks dotted the floor and nearby wall. Most disturbing were the areas of slick white representing were Alex's struggle had stripped the sides of his wrist, where the metal bit in the hardest, down to the bone.

Alex saw them come in; saw them staring in horror at the mess he'd made of himself and the room, but mainly, Alex saw the open door and foolishly made a bid for the nonexistent freedom on the other side.

Using the "bed" on wheels as a makeshift battering ram, Alex rolled it towards the scientists with as much force as his small body could muster; pushing through the bone jarring crash that occurred when he slammed into them.

The tactic only worked as well as it did due to the shock of the three men the bed collided with; shock which quickly evaporated into anger, taking whatever small advantage he had with it.

He was fast, just not fast enough—not that being tied to a slab of metal helped any. Alex managed to move past the three researchers enough to set a foot out in the hallway and skirt around the bed, attempting to drag it behind him. Then, one of them, sporting a rather nasty gash to the forearm from where the side of the bed had hit him, grabbed hold of the metal frame and yanked backwards. The force was hard enough to jerk the escaping child off his feet, send his head crashing backwards into the corner of the bed, and pull his left shoulder out of its socket with a sickening wet pop.

Alex was too dazed to scream—though the pain was  _intense._ The agony from his shoulder sticking out of him at an odd angle combined with the shattering blow his head had received caused his vision to spin and become spotted with stars.

It was over; over before it had even begun.

Once he could partially focus again, Alex looked up shakily, pushing himself up with an arm that was having trouble supporting him—his left simply refused to cooperate—at the despicable men above him, his vision further blurred by the blood trickling down from the small gash on his forehead.

He couldn't move; couldn't stop them from wrenching him up by his already throbbing shoulder back onto the bed where they completely strapped him down, however, Alex did find the ability to start screaming. It was a pathetic gesture, one that would do him no good, but he let this entire area of the facility know about the agony ripping through his beaten body and soon to be obliterated mind as the grimacing men wheeled him down the hallway.

One of them was foolish enough to try to cover his mouth with his hand. He was now missing a sizable chunk of the bloody palm he was clutching to his chest.

No one else daring to silence the distraught child, Alex screamed until it felt like his throat was as ripped as his shredded wrist. It was all he could do; the only word finding its way to his lips being his brother's name.

_**"** _ _**ALBERT** _ _**!"** _

He screamed it over and over,  _and over_  again and again, filling that single syllable with all the anguish, sorrow, and terror that had been welling up in his small chest ever since his birthday.

Nothing else would come. Just the name. He called it out until it lost all meaning and then kept shouting it until it developed a twisted meaning all its own: Guilt. Guilt over everything he'd done and over everything he wouldn't and couldn't do for the twin he wanted nothing more than to save and, in a few minutes, would lose the ability to remember entirely.

Alex wasn't sure if it was due to how distraught he was right now, the blow to his head, the massive trauma he'd just endured, or possible a combination of all three mixed with a newly developing rather sick obsession, but somehow, Alex screamed the name until it became tangible; screamed it until he  _made_  the brother he was losing—had lost, appear beside him.

Then it all came out; everything; the apologizes, the rationalizations, the begging, the pleading, the sobbing...

Of course it wasn't real. The illusion created by the panic induced psychosis he'd driven himself into just stared impassively at the ground, blue eyes downcast, just walking silently alongside the stretcher, offering neither forgiveness nor persecution; something perhaps worse than either would have been.

Then everything went white; his entire world blotted out by the operation lights.

He saw nothing, but still he heard the earsplitting screams he was having trouble identifying as his own cutting mercilessly through the air; screams that were suddenly muffled by the mask pumping a sickeningly sweet smelling, sleep inducing gas into his lungs by the frantic anesthesiologist trying to subdue this terrifyingly violent child before her.

Tears of pure desperation were streaming down his face as he fought the inevitable. But the straps were too thick, the pain was too intense, the chemicals too strong, and the brother he had created did nothing to save him—he didn't deserve it. Despite all this, he still fought. He struggled until his muscles began to give out and a black destructive fog began to eat away at his thoughts and will, creeping into the corners of his vision, obliterating the bright white that had become his world.

Oh how he hated the color black.

In the last moments of what Alex viewed as his end, when he realized he was completely loosing the ability to fight, he was saved, but not by the hallucination of the brother that was this close to slipping through his weakening fingers forever. He was saved by the man who had condemned him.

* * *

_January 1st; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

Ever since Sebastian had seen and talked to this specific subject, Alex Wesker, in person, he had been enthralled, no mesmerized by him. The child was everything they were looking for and so much more; light years ahead of the other children. The difference was almost terrifying when one imagined the creature this boy would soon become, and therein lay the problem.

Could Alex  _be_  molded?

Someone already so cunning and so in tune with the emotions, goals, and most hidden desires of those around him at this age...well, he'd be the most deadly weapon Umbrella had ever created as an adult. After all the training Umbrella was planning on putting him through, uncontrolled he could and almost without a doubt  _would_  either destroy or take over this company. Lord Spencer wasn't looking for a usurper or a destroyer, but without a way to control the boy, that exactly what he'd get.

It wasn't as though Sebastian would feel badly if Alex one day eliminated the monarch, but his own life and future, that was another story entirely. Surely, the man who had destroyed his life would not be spared should Alex embark on the path of destruction, nor was Sebastian foolish enough to believe he would be allowed to live in a world controlled by this boy.

Thankfully, there was hope. Alex had a weakness and a powerful one at that. One that could trump everything that made him the deadly being he was quickly becoming: His twin.

Sebastian had witnessed on multiple occasions how far Alex had been willing to go for his brother and just how close to the edge his doppelganger could send him. Using Albert against Alex was a task that was exceedingly dangerous as well; a bit of a double edged sword if you will, but Sebastian had masterfully wielded those before. He was confidant that with this weapon; this chain, he could control the creation before him.

There was just one little problem with that plan. Alex, like all the other children was slated to be wiped. With no memories of his twin...Alex was no longer a viable subject.

Sebastian had been trying for days to get the order revoked, going all the way up to Lord Spencer, but the man was more concerned with other things aside from his hand picked child protegees. As such the infuriated director of Project: W had yet to hear back from Umbrella's sole creator and lord, and now Sebastian was this close, to losing his star member; his favorite.

When he'd seen the feed from the operating room and the adjoining halls signifying that he'd run out of time, Sebastian had been forced to act; something he hated, but for the sake of what he viewed to be one of if not  _the_  sole success of this project, he would "suck it up," as they say. Not to mention, what he'd seen had further proven that using Albert against Alex was a sure way to gain power over the hysterical child.

By the time he'd burst into the sterile operating room, completely un-gowned, and thus fully contaminating it, thereby preventing the surgery from taking place, Alex was only weakly twitching and his screams had died down to a hoarse whisper.

"What the hell do you think you're doing!" bellowed the head neural surgeon in charge of preforming this experimental surgery on all the Wesker Children. He threw down his tools in anger, the stress of all the wailing children he'd cut open and ripped the memories from, combined with how much damage this one was causing, on top of Sebastian's intrusion finally causing him to snap. "You've completely  _ruined_  this operation!"

Sebastian only narrowed his poison colored eyes. "Unstrap him."

"What?!" the man screamed. "Are you crazy?! You know what our orders are! I don't give a damn if you've developed a soft spot for this one!"

Sebastian coolly raised his gun into the man's face, effectively shutting him up. "And  _I_  don't really care what your thoughts are on the subject, or, as a matter of fact, for you in the least," he hissed coldly.

"You!" barked Sebastian at the doctor who had been assisting in each of these criminal invasions of the children's minds, though his eyes never left the now terrified head surgeon before him.

"Y-yes, Wesker, Sir?" he stammered.

"Would you say you can effectively preform the surgeries you've been participating in all week by now?"

"Y-yes, but-"

The sound of the gun going off was like a crack of thunder in the small tense room, completely dwarfing the sound made by the now obviously dead doctor crashing onto the instrument table, soaking them in blood from a gaping wound in the back of his head that they were never meant to come in contact with.

Several people screamed, but nobody dared to move, except the boy on the table who was being to struggle a little harder since the gas had been removed and the drugs never given through his hastily inserted bloody IV by the now trembling anesthesiologist.

"I believe you've just been promoted," Sebastian informed the rather white neurologist who had now become the subject of his chilling stare. "You will clean up here and then dispose of the body. The surgical documentation will be filled out and signed as if the operation had been done. As to our late doctor...a horrible accident; unable to handle the stress of mutilating crying children day in and day out. I'll handle the report. Are we clear?" He paused, slowing re-holstering his weapon. "If not...I'll be happy to find replacements for everyone in this room."

The series of terrified affirmatives assured Sebastian that none of the people in here would cause him future trouble. Not that it would matter for long anyways. Umbrella never left loose ends and was planning on eliminating every doctor in this room once the rest of the procedures had been completed.

That out of the way, he went over the the much more strongly thrashing child he had just "saved" and deftly undid the straps.

The relief that flooded through Alex at being released, still clinging desperately to the memories of his twin, completely blotted out every other emotion and, before he knew it, his arms were wrapped as tightly as his weakened state could manage around the man who he'd sworn to forever loath. He still did, but the absolute relief didn't allow his brain to make the disconnect between that vow and his current actions.

Sebastian was nothing short of shocked...but quite pleasantly so. Perhaps this wasn't an entirely negative experience; he'd just gained a huge opportunity to manipulate the sobbing ten year old who was gripping his jacket as strongly as his shaking muscles would allow. Encircling the tremblingly child in his arms, he lifted him from the cold metal table and wrapped him in an embrace that was nothing short of ice.

"Everything is going to be alright now, Alex," he lied soothingly in his ear. "Enjoy each and everyone of those haunting memories; no one will ever take away a single bit of that self inflicted misery you've turned into your purpose."

As chilling as those words where, they were somehow exactly what Alex needed to hear, and he allowed himself to go slack, completely falling into the monster that had brought him here, would irrevocable mold him, and whose grip on his life and future, would never truly be released.

* * *

_January 10th; Europe: Unknown Umbrella Facility:_

Alex stood alone in the desolate hallway, his physical isolation mimicking the vast emptiness he felt inside his chest. The beauty of his surroundings inside the more "public" area of Umbrella's facility and of the panoramic view—the busy European streets, rustically modernized buildings rich in the colors of history, everything lit ablaze in the deep red glow of the setting sun—offered by the almost entirely glass westward facing wall were completely lost on the young boy trying desperately to stay afloat on the raging waters created by his deadly predicament.

He was trapped; trapped within this hellish place. Sebastian had instantly made it clear that he had easily identified Alex's weakness and had every intention of using his now memory-less twin against him. Alex shivered as if the biting January wind blowing playfully through the twisting cobblestone roads below had rushed right through the glass and engulfed him at the thought. Unlike Alex, Albert had not been spared the atrocity of having his consciousness rent in two and memories scattered to the wind by the Umbrella surgeons as cold and unfeeling as their blades.

Alex further blocked out the rest of senses, straining to hear even the slightest sound from behind the door marked "S. Wesker;" the door that held his memory-less brother and the snake who'd caused all of this to happen behind it.

The weight of knowing that all of Albert's ability to recall even the slightest bit of information about the brother who had and would continue to ruin himself trying to keep them both alive came as both an unbearable pressure on his chest and as sweet relief—Albert would now never know of Alex's "betrayal" ...or so he thought. Alex didn't know about the notes exchanged between his twin and Laura or of the damage it had already caused.

Then another part of him—he couldn't tell if it was logic, denial, or just wishful thinking—didn't even believe that it could have happened at all, despite all the evidence presented to the contrary. How could you take away another's individual's past? Their very sense of self? How could Albert have just forgot... _everything_? Would he even still be the same person if that was true?

Another shiver erupted over Alex's still sore body. He'd find out soon enough.

After what felt like an eternity of waiting, Alex heard the door open and watched the reflection of his brother as he was ushered out by Mr. Wesker. He saw the reflection of those poisonous green eyes narrow momentarily in dissatisfaction. Alex wasn't supposed to be out here. He was supposed to be "recovering" back in the plush room adjoined to Sebastian's suite—the quarters he'd been assigned so that the devil could watch over his every move personally and always be within reach of the young protegee he'd grown exceedingly fond of.

Alex didn't care how upset Mr. Wesker became at him. According to the files he'd discovered within Sebastian's desk, Albert was about to be transferred to one of the many private schools under Umbrella's direct supervision to start his "training" where he would be molded into the precise individual Mr. Wesker and Lord Spencer wanted him to be. This was Alex's last chance to see his brother in person for a long time, perhaps forever. He was not going to pass it up, even if doing so directly interfered with Sebastian's plan and therefore brought the wrath of his mentor down on him.

Alex winced as he stared intently at the reflection of the little brother he'd been protecting since birth. Albert's expression was a blank wall covering up barely decipherable defeat, fear, and confusion. Albert's shoulder's were hunched ever so slightly and his vision down cast, un-styled bold hair only partially covering up his eyes as the right side of his head was still quite freshly shaved, the nasty curve of the scar that was testament to the chilling truth painted even redder in the light of dusk. What hurt the most was the fact that Albert hadn't even more than glanced in Alex's direction.

He almost let the two go, uninterrupted on their way down the hall, but it was too much...he  _had_ to know. At the very least, he had to hear Albert's voice one final time.

"...Albert...?"

The name came out as a raspy, pleading whisper rather than the uncaring inquiry he'd intended it to be. Alex certainly had a long way to go before he even approached Sebastian's unshakable level of control.

His twin turned, and blinked in momentary confusion at the back of the boy who'd just addressed him by name, ignoring the pressing hand of his escort on his shoulder.

Alex didn't dare turn around. He'd already severely broached the line Mr. Wesker had lain out for him. Not wanting to make things any harder than they already were on both of them, Alex continued to watch what was left of the boy that had once been his little brother through the reflection in the glass.

"Who are...do I know you?" Albert murmured in response.

Alex felt his heart break.

"No...no I suppose you don't."

No longer able to ignore the now rather earnest urging of Sebastian, Albert was forced to walk away, trying to disregard the nigh overpowering feeling of nostalgia and pain welling up in his chest.

The two figures disappeared around a corner, leaving Alex alone with a reflection that was no longer his; a twisted version of the twin who'd just unknowingly abandoned him.

 _ **"Well...you've certainly done it this time, Alex."**_  A merciless grin covered lips that weren't really his, only a reflection of how damaged his psyche had become.  _ **"Let's see you reason your way out of this one."**_

At least he wasn't alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you all enjoyed this alternate perspective into the story line. I'm actually really enjoying writing for Alex's character. I think it was important for my readers to understand why he did what he did when he "betrayed" Albert. This is a story about humanizing the primary antagonist in Resident Evil so it wouldn't make much sense for me to leave his brother out of that process. Regardless, hate or love Alex, he will be returning at several key points as a very important character so don't count him out /smiles/. 
> 
> Thank you for reading,
> 
> -Asiera


	6. PG04A/W: The Devil's Second Knock

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's been seven years since the boy now calling himself Albert Wesker has heard from the company that destroyed his life and robbed him of his past. Honestly, he thought he was done with Umbrella, but when a letter bearing the company's official octagonal insignia arrives, requesting him for a position working within their research department, Wesker realizes that it's far from over. The time has come to face the demons that terrorized him as a child.

 

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG04A/W: The Devil's Second Knock**

_Seven years. It had been seven long years since Albert Silvain had ceased to be and the creation know as Albert Wesker had come into existence._

* * *

_May 15th, 1977; North-Western University Campus:_

The sound of hurried footfalls dominated the empty hallway of one of the finest schools on the northwest cost. Usually these halls were bustling with scholars moving between classes, joking with their class mates, or frantically paging though their gigantic textbooks. But today, only a solitary figure stalked the building; his long lithe form clothed entirely in the purest black, from his combat boots all the way to the dark sunglasses shielding brooding stormy blue eyes.

The reason for the lack of any traffic inside the school was simple: Graduation. Everyone on campus was out on the sunny spring lawn laughing with friends and family and celebrating their various achievements. Nothing any of them had been able to actualize was quite so impressive as what the young blond had accomplished in the last seven years: A PhD in Biochemical Engineering with a Masters in Virology and a Bachelor's in Biology and Chemistry.

For obvious reasons his unprecedented academic prowess and unrivaled raw intelligence had been the envy of many of his "peers" who were themselves usually twice his age or more and had been working towards their goals for longer then the boy had been alive.

It was amusing to Wesker to see the unbridled hatred and envy poring from their eyes as they watched him effortlessly complete tasks which crushed even their most valiant of efforts.

It was equally as obvious that Wesker hadn't made friends in any of the many famous institutions he flew through. Not that it mattered to him. He was not interested in things as frivolous as friendship, family, and the meaningless celebratory activities of the fools out on the lawn. In fact, he'd been thrilled at any chance of an excuse to not attend the pointless activity. He had been through so many that they all became rather tiring.

However when the courier—yes an actual courier—had delivered the "for his eyes only" envelop his heart had dropped to somewhere near his feet before shooting up to become lodged in his throat. Once he had been able to think over the pounding in his ears he'd looked up to question the strange suited man who had delivered the small package that felt nothing short of a lead weight in his hands. But he was gone, leaving Wesker alone to stare with a mixture of horror and fascination at the octagonal red and white insignia adorning the paper in his hand.

_Umbrella._

Wesker hadn't even heard a whisper from the retched organization since...well he supposed he never  _really_  had. But it was a name he could never forget.

Wesker's scowl deepened as he stalked passed the empty lecture halls towards his dorm room and let his mind wander back to that strange...he'd guess you'd call it an "interview" that had taken place in the unnaturally clean office nearly seven years ago. The man who had introduced himself as Wesker, a title Albert now used on a daily basis, had explained to the confused child that he had been involved in an accident, a horrible, horrible accident. Dr. Wesker had told him that the crash had claimed the lives of everyone in his family while barely sparing his own, but not without first inflicting a very traumatic brain injury. According to the tall cold man sitting behind the grand writing desk, it had been a miracle that he'd survived at all, let alone walked away with "only" complete global amnesia.

Wesker had only sat their listening to the carefully formed words, each one exiting his name-sake's lips with impeccable poise and delicacy. He hadn't known what to think. He'd barely even been able to respond when Dr. Wesker had requested his participation in a follow up study to obtain data on the effectiveness and long term results of the experimental surgery that had "saved his life." The study was to primarily focused on his resulting cognitive function and ability to process and learn information. In exchange, the company the man worked for—whose name he had never been mentioned—would pay for his living expenses and any education he would desire to attain.

The deal had been too sweet. Beyond that, Wesker had known the man was lying. His hand had been clenched tightly around the papers lodged deeply in the pockets of the white scrubs that proved it; almost in the exact same way they were now.

Once in the safety of his room, Wesker had dragged out the yellowing contours of the envelope resting underneath his mattress and pulled out the worn papers it contained. They were so old and handled that it looked like they might fall apart in his hands. Leaning against the side of his bed Wesker chanced a glance and the newer glossier surface of the envelope held in his other hand.

To this day, Wesker still remembered waking up in that dark room, lost, confused and desperate for answers his foggy mind couldn't locate within the vast expanse of nothingness it had become. He also remembered the girl who'd given the only fragment of his forgotten past he could cling to. He remembered her sad green eyes and her bright red hair covering only the left side of her head as she leaned over him; just as his blond hair had at the time.

Wesker impulsively ran a hand though his now carefully slicked back platinum locks, taking comfort in the stiff strands that completely covered his scar. He really didn't want to be reminiscing over the past, but the sudden appearance of the company he had ordered himself to destroy proved to be excuse enough to relive those confusing moments that were his first real memories.

The girl had whispered his name, no not his name, a different one; one that now felt foreign on his lips.  _Silvain_. She had smelled of wild flowers, wild flowers masked by antiseptic wash and the overpowering sent of chemicals. It had made him sick. Something about the encounter had made him feel as though she didn't have a lot of time. Perhaps it was the hurried almost frantic way she had pressed the very papers he was now clenching into his hand, forcing him to grip it. She had then glanced hurriedly over her shoulder at the slightly open door before whispering. "A promise is a promise." She had hesitated, chewing her lower lip for a moment. "My name is Laura Muller, don't forget about me, Albert," with that she had placed a quick and poor excuse for a first kiss on his forehead before vanishing without another word or glance.

He'd thought he dreamed it, but then, once he'd recovered more fully from the effects of the anesthesia, he'd read the note written in his own erratic hand writing.

Then he'd wished he'd dreamed it.

In ink full of hatred and agony he had commanded himself, a mere helpless child to take revenge on a man and a company more powerful than he could have ever imagined as well as the twin brother he hadn't been aware he'd had.

It was impossible.

He couldn't do it.

So he'd given in. He'd taken Wesker's offer and then his name.

He'd run with the chance given to him and never looked back...until now.

Now all the things he'd been running from were staring him in the face, demanding him to reexamine everything he'd tried to forget; what little of his past that remained screaming for revenge.

Well, he wasn't helpless now.

Wesker tore open the envelope.

* * *

 _May 17_ _th_ _, 1977; Somewhere over Midwestern America:_

Wesker sighed and arched his back, regretting that the small personal space four hundred and thirty seven dollars had afforded him on a last minute flight to Raccoon City Pennsylvania didn't allow him to fully stretch out his by now stiff spine.

In all honesty, Wesker  _hated_  flying. He hated the lack of control he had over the air born monstrosity; hated the fact that one false move on the part of the pilot could send him plummeting to his death; hated the tiny cramped quarters where his personal space was severely compromised by his neighbors that ranged from snoring old ladies to crying unruly children and their clunky baggage; but for some reason, what Wesker hated most were the infuriatingly cheerful flight attendants with their fake smiles and cheap excuses for inflight refreshments.

Yes, everything about flying was loathsome and airports weren't much different. But here he was, sitting on the isle seat of some very un-classy commercial airline answering the summons of the company he was sworn to destroy.

The letter he'd received only two days prior form the pharmaceutical company responsible for most of the atrocities committed to him early in life had graciously offered him a prestigious position working directly under Dr. James Marcus. Marcus was the head of their Research and Training Facility located in the heart of the Arklay Mountain range, just outside of the little industrialized town known as Raccoon City.

Many of his previous school mates would have killed for such an offer.

In Wesker's case, it seemed he would be killing because of it.

Hours later when the plane made a, in Wesker's opinion, very bumpy landing at Raccoon City's main airport he was met by a liaison from the mysterious Arklay Research and Training Facility he would soon be living and working in.

Wesker was about to discover that Umbrella was keeping many more sinister secrets then he could have ever imagined. Secrets that made the murder of his entire family and his treatment thereafter pale in comparison.

His first clue that there was more to this place than met the eye was the impossibly long drive from the city proper to the actual Research and Training Facility. It was a two hour winding trek through miles upon miles of heavily wooded national forests that hid and separated the facility's remote location from the rest of the world. Nestled between the thick pines sat the complex structure where he would spend the few years. The hunkered down bunker style buildings looked more like a military or prison compound than a research center.

Then there was the impossibly complex, high security system he had to be ushered though. It had involved everything from finger printing, to retinal scans, voice recognition, key cards, X-ray scans of his luggage, metal scans of his person, a rather intrusive pat down, and finally, to his surprise, a pricking of his finger where the resulting drop of blood was exposed to some kind of test strip by a man who was dressed as though they were experiencing some form of outbreak. What pathogen they were testing for, Wesker hadn't the slightest clue, but it was the single most interesting thing that he had seen thus far.

Eventually, after what felt like an impossible amount of unnecessary tests, questions, and processing, Wesker was allowed to enter the facility proper. He was surprised to learn that the building was nearly ten times larger than as he'd first assessed it to be on the drive in, most of the floors being located deeply under ground.

The facility itself was constructed in a similar way to what he'd recalled seeing as a terrified child after the "surgery;" completely white, narrow hallways snaking off to unknown locations, a seemingly endless amount of identical looking doors, and the vents...there was something about the way the vents looked that caused him to shiver involuntarily.

The man traveling with him whom he'd met at the airport unfortunately took notice. "It's pretty cold in the facility, especially the labs, helps with specimen preservation or something. You'll get used to it." He drawled boredly.

Wesker nodded pulling up the lapels of his trench coat. The man was right, it was cold, but that hadn't been the reason. Wesker found that he endured cold temperatures much more then those unbearably hot days during the summer. It was just something about those vents that made him feel almost panicky—Wesker  _never_  felt panicky.

Wesker shook his head to clear such irrational thoughts. He wanted to ask, "what kind of specimens?" but decided against it. This man probably didn't even know, besides, if he was patient enough, the answer would without a doubt be revealed to him.

What followed, Wesker would describe as the most terribly ineffective tour he had ever been given in the entirety of his life. The man whose name he still didn't know—not that he guessed it could be that important—had pointed in random directions down the different halls, though walls or even at the floor, and gestured occasionally to a map they were stationary next to trying to impress the locations of all the important rooms and areas to Wesker while being as vague as humanly possible.

A complete waste of the boy's time to be sure. He would have to explore the building by himself with his newly issued badges and huge number of pass codes that most would find impossible to remember but that only severed as an annoying necessity to the genius known as Wesker.

After the ridiculousness he'd been put though with the world's poorest guide, Wesker had been told the general area of the mountain range in which his bedroom was located and then that his meeting with Dr. Marcus in the man's office—yet another undisclosed location—was in two and a half hours and that he shouldn't be late.

Huffing in annoyance, Wesker navigated the strangely familiar yet entirely alien layout of the facility. He had long ago disregarded the idiot's poor directions and was tackling the winding passages on his own. After what amounted to an hour of frustrating but not not entirely pointless wondering (he had mapped out a large part of the facility and the location of his meeting with Dr. Marcus), Wesker  _finally_ arrived at the plain white door sporting the correct series of numbers informing him that this door, unlike the hundreds of identical looking ones he'd already passed, was in fact his current destination.

Swiping his badge in front of the small black box to the right of the handle Wesker sighed in temporarily relief. He then unceremoniously shoved though the door lugging his, by now, painfully heavy shoulder bag containing everything he currently had to his name with him.

His actions caused the slight form of the mousey boy kneeling amidst a huge pile of papers to jump up emitting something close to a startled squeak. The individual had just been digging messily through a series of drawers containing an ungodly disorganized pile of documents, half of which was now strewn across the floor. He quickly righted himself before just as quickly dropping the mass of papers he'd managed to hang on to after Wesker's initial disruption. The strange boy clad in a wrinkled lab coat met Wesker's hard blue gray eyes for the barest of seconds with his own pale sapphire ones before ducking down after the papers.

Wesker was forced to wait impatiently as the boy who looked about his age, retrieved his fallen documents, somehow able to pick them out flawlessly from among their identical copies. Finally completing the task, he again stood to his full height, a good four inches shorter then Wesker's own five foot nine, and smiled nervously up at him, running his free hand though his messy blond hair which fell erratically around his sharp pale features. The man looked severely overworked. Everything from the dark circles under his eyes to his disheveled appearance as well as his jumpiness and the papers he seemed to live in screamed it.

"Y-you must be Wesker. Albert Wesker right?" He offered the hand that had just been running though his hair. The slight pink color extending over both his cheeks and across his long nose deepened when he saw the less then thrilled way Wesker was regarding him though his thick, dark shades. "I'm William Birkin, your new colleague and roommate."

Wesker's glare narrowed further. He hadn't been told he'd have a roommate. Wesker  _hated_  roommates and he had had about enough of things he hated today.

Birkin's unsteady grin faltered slightly but his hand still rested awkwardly in the space between them.

As much to keep Birkin's precarious armful of papers from falling annoyingly to the floor again due to the one arm hold as to sate the offered greeting, Wesker gripped the teen's slender hand firmly with his own gloved one.

Birkin relaxed slightly, despite the ferocity of Wesker's grip. "Y-you know..." he started once their hands had released, "I've heard a lot about you. We-we all have." That awkward smile again. "You're kind of famous. Even more so then me."

Wesker raised an eyebrow before pushing himself into the room, trying to avoid the mess of papers, papers, and more papers covered with small, graceful cursive that seemed to proliferate the entirety of every flat surface available in the room.

Birkin stepped back to accommodate him still wearing that same grin. "You're the first person I've met with an almost as impressive academic background as me."

The half complements half accusations amused Wesker.

Birkin wasn't really setting himself up as a friend, but more as a rival. This tactic had been used on him before, usually with a healthy helping of a condescending attitude by the men he had studied with who had viewed themselves as the "boy's" superiors. Never had their challenges lasted more than a few days before they realized how hopeless taking on Albert Wesker truly was.

This though...this felt different.

"You are also working directly under Doctor Marcus?" Wesker inquired incredulously.

Birkin nodded. "Mmhm. Have been for almost four months now." He grinned. "At first I was put off by the idea of having someone else messing around in my lab, but after I did my research..." Another nervous glance. "I realized how much potential you might have."

His passive aggressive, barely there challenges were fascinating to Wesker. He was beginning to wonder if the jumpy, nervous, stuttering, rather weak persona Birkin put fourth was actually an intentional facade.

Wesker shrugged nonchalantly, the strap of his bag digging painfully into his shoulder. "I guess we'll find out. Should be...interesting to see if I can 'keep up.'"

Birkin nodded, pleased. His challenge had been accepted.

Wesker readjusted the weight attempting to dislodge his shoulder. "Top or bottom?"

Birkin blinked in a confused manner, his easy blush returning. "W-What?"

Wesker again raised his delicate eyebrow at Birkin's reaction before gesturing to the bunks, both of which were piled high with Birkin's papers. "Top or bottom." he repeated.

"O-oh!" laughed Birkin in acknowledgment. "Silly me, I should have cleared one off when they told me you were coming, but, it wasn't as though they gave me much warning and Progenitor  _always_  takes priority."

Wesker had to bite his tongue to keep the question from springing from his mouth. This wasn't the first time he'd heard this "Progenitor" mentioned in the facility, but what or who it was remained a mystery.

Though Wesker hadn't shown any outward signs of confusion, Birkin jumped on the opportunity he  _knew_  was there. "Oh, but you don't know about 'Progenitor' yet do you?" He waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry, I'm sure Doctor Marcus will fill you in shortly."

Wesker gritted his teeth partly because his shoulders and back were screaming at him and partly because Birkin had dealt the first blow in their strange game.

Birkin's odd smile deepened, starting to show edges of the sneer it was hiding. "Top. I've always been on top."

With a malevolent smirk and a mocking cock of his head Wesker swung his heavy bag right on the loosely piled paper littering the bottom bunk, unmindful of whatever weak organization he may have just ruined. "This time? I seriously doubt it."

Birkin's smirk faltered slightly at Wesker's directness while Wesker's widened.

This was going to be fun.

Birkin took the brief moment Wesker's back was turned to him to put on a look somewhere between a scowl and a pout which quickly vanished as his roommate stood up.

"So, you have a meeting with Doctor Marcus right?"

"Correct." Wesker moved past him, their shoulder's slightly brushing due to the small constraints of his new living space.

It was cramped for one person, but for two? Birkin and him were going to have to get close,  _very_  close, whether they wanted to or not. Wesker would certainly have preferred  _not_.

"I see..." Birkin seemed almost pensive. "Well, don't expect too much from him, he's pretty much the definition of a recluse."

"Trying to psych me out before I even meet the man? Isn't that a little juvenile?" teased Wesker.

Birkin grinned amiably. "Well I  _am_  only fifteen, so I suppose I'm entitled to a little more immaturity than you."

Wesker's slight frown at the fact that Birkin had gotten to this lofty position nearly two whole years before he was able to accomplish the same thing was almost imperceptible, but William caught it.

The fifteen year old Doctor just waved a hand dismissively. "Anyways, not important." He paused. "But in all seriousness, Al, don't touch or even look at the man's leeches."

The fact that Birkin had called him, "Al" was almost as infuriating as his mention of "leeches" was confusing. Almost.

Since Wesker was unable to form an adequate comeback as he grappled between the indignation of such a nickname being used by a rival he'd just met and the confusing warning about Dr. Marcus's apparent pets, Birkin just smiled slyly and skirted around Wesker, exiting the room.

"See you around, Al," the scientist waved over his shoulder as he walked hurriedly down the hall, the white tails of his lab coat waving sporadically behind him.

Wesker growled. He couldn't tell if he hated Birkin or found him highly amusing bordering on even  _likable_.

Wesker hadn't had anything even close to a friend since...well...ever, and he'd certainly never met anyone with whom any form of real competition was even a possibility. Now he was looking at the prospect of perhaps both and he wasn't really sure how he felt about it. In the end, Wesker concluded that he didn't know how to like or befriend someone and that the whole thing was stupid anyway, so he therefore hated the man known as William Birkin.

Satisfied, Wesker too exited the room and began traversing the distance between his dorm and Dr. Marcus's office.

It turned out everything Birkin had told him was completely accurate.

Dr. Marcus was a tall wisp of an obviously senior man with heavily grayed greasy hair that fell beyond his shoulders, the tangles of which frequently hid his pale features and darting suspicious eyes. Wesker noted with disgust that the man looked as though he hadn't showered in days. He imagined that, were it not for the overpowering smell of antiseptics that predominated the air filtering through this pristine white facility, his new superior's small would match his appearance. The man must have been an absolute genius to make up for his heinous appearance and unforgettable lack of anything approximating manners.

Dr. Marcus's main goal throughout the short clipped interview seemed to be getting Wesker  _out_  of his office as  _soon_  as possible and away from the huge disgusting terrarium in the corner that was filled with at least a dozen black leeches each just under a half a foot in length. Wesker, of course, wondered exactly what sort of experiments were being done with the slime covered creatures, but he wisely heeded William's advice and kept his inquiries and gaze away from the subject.

Aside from the way it was being conducted, the interview was fairly standard and Wesker was having no trouble presenting himself in a highly positive light while keeping his responses as Spartan as possible in order to further please his new employer.

That fleeting sense of normalcy was shattered by Dr. Marcus's next question.

"Do you have a problem with illegal experimentation?"

The words had come out so flat, so void of any emotion...almost like he was bored.

Wesker paused. "Such as what exactly? Stem cells?"

Marcus shook his head in disgust, his features becoming further obscured by the mated mess falling around his shoulders. "We are far beyond mere stem cells here, Doctor Wesker. No, I'm talking about highly dangerous, exceeding illicit viral and biological experimentation." He frowned. "We're currently mostly using lab rats but I feel that that avenue is quite rapidly reaching the end of its practicality."

Wesker hid his shiver with a roll of his shoulders. They were taking about a fast approaching switch from animal to  _human_  experimentation, he was almost certain of it.

Wesker's features remained ice. He chose his words with the same precise caution that his name sake had before delivering them with an equally unwavering confidence. "I have no problem with the act, only with the consequences that would follow should one be careless." Wesker was surprised at how easy the words came out and that no guilt followed their escape from his lips.

Marcus's face actually split into what Wesker supposed was a look of pleasure. "Then I suggest you don't be careless..."

Wesker smiled. "Not in my wildest dreams, Doctor."

Seeming satisfied, Marcus waved his hand dismissively. "Report to your lab, Doctor Wesker. Doctor Birkin will fill you in on all the experiments, the Progenitor Virus, and anything thing else you may need to know." He was already standing, literally shooing Wesker out.

It was an impossible "hint" to miss.

Wesker was on his way out the door when Dr Marcus called. "I want  _daily_  progress reports on all experiments and  _any_  changes fresh on my desk every morning. Understood? And  _don't_ even think about bothering me with inane questions. If you got here, you should be acting like a scientist, not a lab assistant. "

Wesker nodded. "Not a problem."

The door was actually slammed in his face.

Musing about all the strangeness of Dr. Marcus, Wesker set about the task of locating his and Birkin's laboratory. The long trek gave him plenty of time to think over everything that he'd just learned.

Progenitor was apparently a virus and possibly the primary object of study in this institution. Dr. Marcus was evidently extremely paranoid, especially about his little Leech Project, whatever that was. The doctor was also exceedingly controlling of his students while wanting as little to do with them as possible. Most important of all, Umbrella's illegal ventures did not just extend to whatever they had done to him seven years ago.

Wesker wondered briefly why Dr. Marcus would be so open with all of that sensitive material without feeling Wesker out first. He was then reminded of the nigh impassable security system and all the armed guards around every exit. If he'd refused or acted repulsed by the good doctor's lack of morality and attempted to leave, he would most likely only manage to do so in a body bag.

Wesker held no illusions about the corporation's willingness to kill at the slightest provocation. He would have to be  _extremely_ cautious.

It was curious that Umbrella had sought him out specifically. It wasn't as though he'd ever shown particular preference for the morally gray and beyond. Then again, he was highly suspicious that he'd never truly been free of the pharmaceutical giant's watchful eyes and guiding hands. Perhaps he'd been molded for this role from the beginning. Maybe this was just another step on their planned road they'd painstakingly paved for him. With the almost god-like ego possessed by this company, Wesker would certainly not put it past them. He'd be surprised if they hadn't orchestrated the whole thing.

The question was, how long was he going to play along? How long was he going walk on their desired path?

Wesker's journey finally at an end outside the giant doors marked:  _Progenitor-Main Laboratory._ He moved though the sliding reenforced glass doors after scanning his cards, imputing his finger printed and subjecting himself to a rental scan he knew would be the cause of a headache later today—he was extremely prone to them.

Anything Wesker had been imagining was put to shame

He looked around the room in awe. The huge space contained a plethora of unknown lab equipment, some of which he'd only seen in advanced prototype screenings, others that he thought he recognized from science fiction movies, and still more devices and stations he had had no idea could even exist. The great vastness of the world's finest technology surrounded the, by comparison, miniscule form of Doctor Birkin who looked nothing but at home in this array of scientific heaven.

The answer to his previous question now became inescapably clear. Wesker was going to be keeping to Umbrella's plan for quite sometime.

Knowledge was power and right now, he was at a  _severe_  disadvantage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very excited about finally introducing Birkin. I can already tell I'm going to deeply enjoy writing for the two of them. Also, getting Wesker into Umbrella should really get this story going, so that's another plus. I'm really looking forward to the slow but steady molding of our favorite villain and I hope you are too.
> 
> Thank you for reading this addition,
> 
> -Asiera


	7. PG05A/W: The Progenitor of Everything

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Now a member of the Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility working with William Birkin under James Marcus, Wesker is brought up to speed on the Progenitor Virus. It turns out the deadly viral research isn't the only nasty thing going on in this facility.
> 
> The facts that he's one of many, highly replaceable, and already an experiment of the company are now undeniable truths.

 

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG05A/W: The Progenitor of Everything**

_May 17th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

"They call it, The Stairway to the Sun." Birkin informed Wesker in an impossible mix of excited yet bored tones as he pointed to the seemingly innocuous gold and red flowers suspended in the yellow liquid of the test tube. Their shape was fairly consistent with those of daisies but their texture looked almost like a mushroom's; rough and spongy. All in all they weren't particularly spectacular and they certainly weren't something Wesker would consider putting in a bouquet.

Wesker gave him an incredulous look accompanied by a little quirk of his left eyebrow. "This is the big finale? The single most important object in the entire lab? I am  _not_ impressed, Will." Wesker informed his partner as he bent down to closer examine the withered looking petals though the glass.

"Will" was is own personal revenge for, "Al."

"Not into flowers, huh?" laughed Birkin, juxtaposing his face beside Wesker's.

"Not particularly. Explain."

"The Ndipaya tribes claim they have the power to ascend mortals to the levels of gods."

Wesker scoffed. "Please tell me there is more here then some West African legend."

Birkin allowed a comical pout to cover his features for a few moments as he glared behind the mask at Wesker's reflection in the glass. He had assumed his partner wouldn't know a thing about the obscure indigenous tribe.

"Yes of course there is," he sighed in annoyance.

"Oh?" More doubt.

"These flowers are the origins of the Progenitor Virus."

He could practically see Wesker's eyes light up behind his heavy shades. Birkin couldn't blame him. After Wesker had stalked into his lab, the young doctor had spent the entirety of the day orienting the "trainee" to his new surroundings. Birkin wanted Wesker up to date on every single piece of equipment and each procedure used in this high tech facility before he even mentioned the true nature of the research he was conducting here let, alone let Wesker participate in it.

Wesker had flown though the orientation that would take most days to complete in just a few hours. By now he was extremely impatient and tired of all the obstacles that William was enjoying putting between him and the Progenitor Virus.

"Flowers?" Wesker still sounded incredulous. He was expecting more tricks from the man he'd been forced to follow on a wild goose chase for the past five hours.

"Yes," responded Birkin straightening. "Flowers."

Wesker continued to stare suspiciously at the plants. " _This_  is the source of the virus?"

"Strange I know," replied Birkin boredly. "But the Stairway to the Sun are the soul known sources of Progenitor. To further complicate things they only grow in a certain region of Africa," explained William regarding his reluctant trainee's rather compromising position. One quick kick to Wesker's vulnerable rear would send him flying though that glass container and out of Birkin's hair; possibly for good. Birkin sighed rather wistfully as he imagined all the work he could have gotten done had he not been dragging an annoyed Wesker around.

Wesker stiffened in horror when he caught what he could only interpret as Dr. Birkin staring at his ass and sighing in the glass tube's reflection. He stood up so fast it, along with the glare he sent in the boy's direction, caused the naturally skittish Birkin to jump. "What the hell, Will?"

Birkin laughed, obviously not getting the real reason behind Wesker's annoyance. "I know it's improbable, Al, but it's certainly not impossible."

Wesker's jaw almost dropped.

"There have been known cases before of viruses specific to certain species. You know, like your dog can't give you its cold."

Wesker narrowed his eyes. Either he'd missed something or...hell he didn't know. But they were talking about the weird flowers again so he just decided to drop it. "I'm a cat person."

Birkin wrinkled his nose. "I'm allergic to cats."

"Huh."

They stared at each other for a while, each trying to interpret the others strange actions before temporarily giving up.

"Anyways, you get the idea right?" sighed Birkin.

"Yes," affirmed Wesker in a similar manner. "But why won't they grow here?"

Birkin shrugged more then a little peeved. "I don't know, some uncommon factor no one has been able to locate or maybe a combination of them. I'm a biochemist not a botanist."

Wesker smirked. "And why are we so interested in  _this_  particular virus?"

Birkin seemed suddenly more engaged. "The virus has incredible, but highly unpredictable, mutagenic capabilities when injected into another living organism."

Wesker tapped a gloved finger covered in blue latex instead of his typical black leather on the glass. "I thought you said it could only survive in the flowers."

"The original strain yes." He folded his arms. "But like I said, it has unprecedented mutagenic and adaptive qualities."

"You mixed it with another virus and they spliced?" Awe was apparent in his voice.

Birkin nodded. "We've had success with several, especially those that undergo natural rapid mutations."

Wesker thought for a few moments. "When you say it possesses mutagenic properties, are we talking carcinogenic?"

Birkin was really excited now. "No! It actually alters the molecular structure of the DNA sequence, codes for entirely new  _functional_  body cells!" He frowned. "But the mutations are always too strong and unpredictable for the host to survive..."

"That  _is_  a problem." he grinned. "Fascinating though...quite fascinating." A pause. "Are you sure it's not the type of host you are working with?

Birkin sighed. "We've tried everything from rats, to rabbits, pigs, dogs, and even monkeys. Nothing thus far has been able to sustain Progenitor for more than a few days."

Wesker became silent. "What about humans?"

Birkin blinked at him for several seconds, the atmosphere suddenly strained. "N-no but... if we haven't even been successful on animals, why try humans?"

Wesker tried to shrug off his colleague's disturbed stare. "Just something Doctor Marcus said."

Birkin seemed to relax. "That old man says a lot of things. He may be the director of this facility, but he still can't act without Umbrella's, and more importantly, Lord Spencer's approval."

For some reason the name stuck in his mind, the addition of the "royal" title before it helping it to stay lodged in his subconscious..

Birkin continued. "There's no way that they would move on to humans unless we have a viable virus. The risk far outweighs the benefit."

Wesker looked back from the apparently deadly flowers he'd been staring at. He would have to go about this carefully. "So...you have no qualms about human research."

"N-No!" Birkin shook his head for emphasis.

Wesker raised an eyebrow.

Feeling suddenly defensive, Birkin snapped back. "What? Do you?"

Wesker's shielded eyes left the man who claimed ambivalence. His body language had easily given him away. Fear was practically oozing from him.

"Depends on the human."

"What?" Birkin narrowed his pale eyes.

A slight chuckle. "Well, I'd certainly have a problem with it if I was the one in the test tube."

Birkin's eyes widened and then darted away from Wesker to the empty chair in the corner of the room before the fifteen year old forced himself to meet his partner's gaze. "Yes...I suppose that would be rather horrid."

William was like paper, so easy to read.

"What was their name?"

Birkin blinked. "W-who?"

Feigning ignorance. Typical.

"The individual who used to work here. The one they experimented on."

William blanched. "I-I d-don't know w-what y-you're-"

"Will..." Wesker hissed. "Tell me." He wasn't going to drop this. Strangely he was enjoying making Birkin squirm as much as gaining the vital information.

Birkin put on his best attempt at a strong front. "I  _told_  you I d-don't know what you're talking about, Al! Now if you'll excuse me."

Wesker had had enough. Between everything that had happened in the last few days and this current form of aggravation, his short fuse finally set off his rather violent temper. Wesker grabbed Birkin by the lapels of his lab coat, spun him around, and slammed him up against the glass encasing the dangerous plants. It wasn't hard enough to break the thin protective layer shielding the scientists from the contaminated liquid, but it was enough to hurt and scare William into thinking he just might.

Birkin curled in on himself as best he could, whimpering as Wesker dragged him up the glass until they were level with each other, the smaller boy's feet no longer able to make contact with the ground.

"Let's stop playing around, eh Will? I have no desire to end up in the same position as whoever used to sit in that chair.  _Talk_." Wesker's threatening face was inches from Birkin's.

"Okay! Okay!" he cried. "J-just please...stop. Just stop..." Birkin was out of breath and his eyes were beginning to water.

Wesker felt appalled at the sick twist of pleasure he got from seeing William so vulnerable; at seeing him so completely at his mercy. Suddenly just as scared of himself as Birkin was, he dropped him and took a few shaky steps backwards. His head was reeling and his pounding heart sounded unrealistically loud in his ears.

Birkin shakily pushed himself up from the floor where Wesker had deposited him. Taking a deep breath he looked Wesker in the eyes as directly as he could through the dark lenses. "Stephen. Stephen  _Wesker_."

Wesker's already ragged breath hitched in his suddenly dry throat.

Birkin rubbed at his sore shoulders. "Surly you knew there were more of you?"

Wesker's look of horror said anything but.

"H-how many?" Wesker could barely choke the words out.

Birkin's hard expression almost softened. "You didn't...?" He sighed. "I don't know, Al. Hundreds? Maybe more?"

The thoughts,  _expendable_  and  _experiment_  ran though Wesker's mind, refusing to leave and bouncing repeatedly and chaotically around his consciousness.

Wesker stumbled backwards to sit on a long experiment table. The chilly lab suddenly felt unbearably hot and everything from his collar to his lab coat become constricting. He felt the start of what would soon become a head splitting migraine prickling behind his eyes. Pulling his ever present sunglasses from his face, he held his head and tried to calm his breathing and regain control of the situation somehow.

Birkin stayed frozen for a few minutes, just watching the old Wesker's replacement fight off what was probably a very nasty panic attack. He was angry, extremely so, at being treated so horribly by his domineering roommate. However...he also  _understood_  what Wesker was feeling; what he was going though.

With feelings bordering strangely on empathy, Birkin took a deep breath, got up, and slowly approached Wesker as though he was a wounded predator, liable to strike at any moment. Preparing for the worst, Birkin placed a tentative hand on his shoulder.

Wesker jerked at the touch which caused Birkin to do the same. When William's arm wasn't ripped off he relaxed. "Al," Birkin started slowly. "They killed Stephen because he was weak and he...he couldn't handle it...this." Birkin made a wide gesture around the room. "But you're smarter then he was, much smarter; I read your file. You just can't break."

Wesker was staring at him, unprotected eyes locked with William's.

Birkin placed a key on the desk next to him. "Right now you are replaceable. The obvious solution would be to make yourself the exact opposite."

Deciding that was all he was willing to do, Birkin pulled back and, after checking his watch, walked towards the door. "I'm going to bed," he informed the still paralyzed Wesker with a wave of his hand, "but I suggest you stay here and get caught up with all our previous experiments on Progenitor." He gestured to the giant row of filing cabinets knowing that Wesker would understand that that was what the key was for.

"Good night, Al."

"...night..." Wesker managed to murmur as the door slid shut, gripping the key tightly in his hand. "Thank you." he said for the first time he could remember to the empty room.

Wesker's still uncovered storm blue eyes stared at the now closed doors long after his partner had departed though them. He was utterly confused. Why the hell would Birkin, a man he'd only met hours ago, not to mention just thrown up against as wall, treat him in such a way? Almost like he cared.

Wesker shook his head. No one he'd met in the six and a half years of his life he could remember had  _ever_  cared and it was highly unlikely that Birkin would be the one to break the cycle.

He looked down at the stupid key in his hand that would grant him access to all the previous experiments Progenitor had been involved in and glared. Of course Birkin would give him the key. He had to if he wanted Wesker to be of any use in the laboratory and during future tests.

It wasn't an act of kindness, only one of necessity dressed up as such.

Wesker cursed himself for showing such a lapse in strength, even if it was only for a moment.

From what he could tell, Birkin was just as self centered and self serving as he was. The only logical explanation was that the young doctor stood to gain something from his actions of supposed friendship and comradely. Perhaps he believed Wesker would be more easily manipulated if he trusted William.

It didn't matter because that was certainly not going to happen.

Wesker sighed, picking up his discarded sunglasses, replacing them over his highly sensitive eyes. Despite all the negatives associated with what just occurred, he had learned something  _very_  important. Birkin hadn't been lying about Stephen or his fate. There were more Weskers, a fact he was hardly pleased about.

He briefly wondered if they'd been though the same memory wiping procedure that had been preformed on him and was almost unable to stop from running nervous fingers though his hair. It was likely that they all had, that girl, Laura, he at times believed he imagined, had had a similar surgical incision on her head.

It was chilling to think that hundreds of children and possibly their families could just disappear without anyone's notice.

He shook his head. The how didn't really matter, it was the  _why_  that was vital to understand.

What were they using them for?

It was possible that the existence of the Wesker Children was specifically for the testing of the Progenitor Virus, but Wesker doubted Umbrella would spend so much time, effort, and probably money into the world's smartest group of guinea pigs.

Such thoughts were laughable. Or so he hoped.

Regardless of the intention behind Birkin's strange actions, the boy was right. Even if they weren't originally slated to become test subjects, more Weskers meant he was replaceable and therefore at risk. Though he highly doubted any of them could be quite as extraordinary as he was, he wasn't going to test the theory by getting too comfortable. He had met Birkin after all, an individual he was loathed to admit just might be as good as he was. It was possible the  _others_  were just as good.

Tossing the silver sliver of carefully shaped metal up and down he made his way over to the daunting amount of filing cabinets and the documents they contained.

This was going to be a very long night and the headache that was just starting to come on full force wasn't going to make it any better.

* * *

 _May 18_ _th_ _, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

The sharp beeping of the alarm on his watch sent Birkin jerking out of bed. Usually this wasn't a problem, but as he'd moved himself to the top bunk just to prove a point to his new roommate, a position he was hardly accustomed to, Birkin now had a smarting head, shoulder, elbow, and hip. He was sure several of them would bruise...

Suddenly all of the surprisingly sincere intentions behind his actions last night towards Albert disappeared, and he cursed his new roommate heatedly. He convinced himself, much as Wesker already had, that all his actions were for his own self interest; to get his partner to quit moping around and feeling sorry for himself. Birkin now vowed that everything he'd said last night was to put some fire under Wesker's rather handsome ass instead of to comfort him.

Birkin froze in horror at the thought that had just sped heatedly though his mind.  _"Handsome ass?!"_  He must have hit his head harder than he thought.

Around forty five minutes later, muttering to himself darkly about how much he, " _hated_ top," Birkin let himself into his laboratory, only to find that Wesker was already hard at work and apparently taking over.

William blinked in shock at the vast array of experiments that were spread out over most of the work stations. Wesker's form was moving fluidly between the impossible workload, making quick notes on everything he was observing.

The teen who hadn't left the lab since he'd arrived yesterday smirked somewhat pleasantly at William who had just become the room's new door stop.

"Ah, Doctor Birkin. I've been waiting for you."

"You...you finished?" questioned Birkin incredulously referring to all the files detailing every boring detail of every single one of their experiments with Progenitor. He finally removed himself from the doorway, setting his things down in the small rarely used break room intended for the two workaholics that were the lab's only occupants.

Wesker nodded. "Yes, around 0300."

Birkin stared. "And then you just...started experimenting?" It was obvious from his tone that Birkin was less than pleased. He didn't like walking into his lab not knowing what the hell was going on, where the virus was, if it was being contained properly, what was infected, or what was and wasn't safe to touch. Stephen had always been much more hesitant and had to constantly be given direction on how to use his, until now, unrivaled talents. This Wesker on the other hand had no problems taking charge of the situation...or Birkin's laboratory as the case may be.

"Mmhm," affirmed Wesker eying the large white rat held in a plastic cage with some degree of disappointment.

He had the thing hooked up to several steadily dripping IV tubes and an arterial line as well as a monitor recording the creatures heart rate, oxygen saturation, respiratory rate, and blood pressure. If not for the information being displayed on the screen, Birkin would have assumed the rat was dead as it was laying motionless on its side.

"Did you infect it?" he asked as he came over straightening his lab coat and putting on his gloves.

Again with the monosyllabic affirmation.

"When?" Birkin asked even more peeved. "Which strain and how much?"

"Same one you were using at a tenth of your typical dose," answered Wesker as he continued to scrutinized the infected creature.

"Why so low a dose?" huffed William. "We've already established that dose as little to no effect on the body's reaction time."

"At 0400," Wesker continued as though he hadn't been interrupted.

Birkin stared between him and the rat's vitals in shock. They looked so normal! A little tachycardic, slightly elevated blood pressure with oxygen saturations in the low nineties, but still. Thus far, small creatures who had been exposed had only lasted thirty minutes or so with vitals that good. Wesker's experiment was well into the third hour.

"What's its viral load?" Birkin was now extremely excited. Could Wesker have cracked Progenitor in his first day? Impossible! What the heck had he done differently?

Wesker glanced at his notes. "80,000 copies per milliliter ten minutes ago.

Stunned was the only way to currently describe William.  
"A-Al...how did you...?"

Wesker sighed seeming to have come to some conclusion, his hidden eyes moving from the rat to Birkin for the first time since he'd walked in this morning. "I'm sure you've heard of drug induced comas? They are usually used to facilitate healing in certain grievous situations when slowing down the body's normal functions is a priority. I thought I could use it in combination with immunosupressing agents to give the rat more time to acclimate to the virus without such devastating reactions but..." He trialed off. "Looks like I only bought the thing a few hours."

He attempted to walk away but Birkin caught his arm. "What are you talking about, Al? This is  _amazing_!"

Wesker raised an eyebrow at him as much because of the praise as the way Birkin was hanging off his arm like a giggling school girl.

Noting Wesker's gaze, a blushing William quickly dropped the capture appendage. "It's just...well this is really impressive," he concluded lamely. "You might really be on to something here."

Wesker just shrugged and moved over to the white board filled with his handwriting that, unlike everything else about him, was extremely messy and started to erase everything; quite literally going back to the drawing board. "It'll die by noon, Will. I'd call that a failure."

"You don't know that, Al" snapped Birkin taking over Wesker's abandoned experiment.

Wesker grinned. "Bet you lunch."

"Fine." Birkin could never resit one of Wesker's challenges even if the older boy was right.

* * *

_May 18th, 1997; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

The rat died at exactly 1137.

Wesker leaned over his dismayed looking colleague's shoulder at the obviously dead, now hideously deformed thing that had used to be their experiment. The virus pulled from those seemingly harmless, ugly looking flowers had started to cause massive mutations at the turn of the hour. Now all that was left was a swollen bloated hunk of bloody flesh and fur sporting extra appendages and for some reason, a sickening amount of tiny strangely formed eyes in all the wrong places.

"I think you owe me lunch, Will," Wesker whispered near his ear.

Birkin practically jumped out of his skin. He hadn't heard Wesker come over as he was desperately trying to save their blob and he certainly hadn't felt him lean over as the disgusting mass had flopped and "squeaked" one last time before lying still following its flat line.

The real question was, how could Albert even  _think_  about food after watching  _that_?

William jumped up out of his rolling chair so fast it almost tipped over, hand over his ear that was just as red as his face.

"Jesus, Al! What the hell is your problem?!" gasped Birkin.

Wesker laughed, obviously highly amused. "I'm hungry, Will." He gave his partner a mock pleading look. "You do realize I haven't eaten since those horrible excuses for snacks on the airplane ride over here right?"

Birkin stared at him incredulously as he got his blush under control. He knew the feeling of getting so wrapped up in work that you couldn't even find time to eat, but he had doubted that someone who looked...well...as put together as Wesker would make such sacrifices regarding self care.

He nodded. "Okay, fine...a bet's a bet," sighed Birkin, glancing at the mutilated hunk of flesh that had failed him. "I'll take you to the cafeteria after I incinerate the body."

Wesker grinned triumphantly. Not only was Birkin finally going to buy him the food his body was demanding, but Birkin was cleaning up his failed experiment that had surpassed all of William's attempts with Progenitor thus far. It was a very good day.

"You know," commented Birkin thirty minutes later as the pair walked down the pristine white hallway towards the cafeteria. "I think this might actually work."

"What do you mean?" asked Wesker. He had been trying to encourage Birkin to walk faster by increasing his own speed. He was starving. Unfortunately his tactic wasn't working, forcing him to have to slow down to continue the conversation and prevent from getting lost.

"You know, this relationship," answered William smiling.

Wesker actually froze allowing Birkin to completely catch up, raising an eye brow at him as the scientist walked by. "We're not dating, Will, we're  _lab_  partners."

Dr. Birkin's easy blushes were starting to trouble the Umbrella Research and Training Facility's latest addition.

Birkin laughed. "You know what I meant."

In all honesty, Wesker wasn't quite sure he did. First he'd caught the man staring at his ass and sighing and now this? Wesker didn't know what to make of his strange new colleague.

"But you know," William continued thoughtfully, "in some ways they  _are_  very similar."

Wesker glared and started walking after the odd man again. "No, they are  _not_ , Will."

Birkin scowled. "In some aspects, yes, Al, they are."

"Only if you're an idiot and overlook all the obvious ways that they are not even remotely alike," shot back Wesker feeling particularly annoyed.

"I am  _not_  an idiot, Al!" retorted Birkin. "And what I meant is that they are similar in that they both involve two individuals working towards a mutual goal—preferably amiably—that have trust and respect for one another."

"One would entail sex to be successful," stated the taller bluntly.

Birkin blushed, paused for a moment, and then began to open his mouth to respond before Wesker stopped him with an upraised hand.

"If you even  _think_  of making some stupid joke regarding the term 'chemistry,' I will quite literally kill you."

William shut up and they continued the rest of the way towards the facility's cafeteria in silence.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So lots of interesting stuff between Wesker and Birkin in this addition. Hope you all enjoyed.
> 
> Yes, I did completely make up Stephen Wesker, but as he's never to be mentioned again (probably) and it facilitated some very interesting scenarios, I'd say the very temporary OC was justified /smiles/. 
> 
> I was going to have Wesker wait until he met Laura again to find out more about Project W but what can I say? Wesker hates being left in the dark.
> 
> Thank you for your continued support,
> 
> -Asiera


	8. PG06A/W: Physical

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A temporary dead end in their research leads Birkin to request something very unexpected of Wesker: That he undergo a complete physical. Wesker may regret reluctantly agreeing to this little experiment as it may reveal much more than just what it is that makes Wesker tick.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The below chapter contains explicit sexual content. If this is something the bothers you, the "clean-ish" version can be found on my FanFiction account, here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8664148/8/Project-W
> 
> If you're fine with this material, by all means continue reading.

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG06A/W: Physical**

_September 24th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

It was late September and it was _cold_. It felt as if the Facility nestled deep within the Arklay Mountains had forgotten how to adjust its thermostats. The truth was worse. The heating system had failed a few weeks ago and for some unknown reason, it still wasn't any closer to being fixed.

Wesker normally didn't have a problem with the cold. He'd even become more accustomed to it since his time in the labs where they kept things chilly for the sake of the specimens, but this was ridiculous! He didn't even want to think about the fast approaching winter if they didn't hurry up and rectify the problem.

He dreaded the onset of that season anyways.

Wesker pulled the covers further up around his head. He was beginning to regret his lack of nigh wear. Wesker had always preferred to sleep nude. He hated how clothing restricted his movement and wrinkled uncomfortably under him when he rolled over at night. Now he was actually considering investing in a pair. Perhaps it would be better then shivering his arse off under these blankets.

Wesker was just thinking about how much he'd dread the trip down the mountain to purchase such items, when a small sneeze followed by a series of annoying sniffles form the bunk above him derailed his train of thought.

Now Wesker remembered why he was awake and freezing rather than asleep and ignoring the chill...

Along with the cold weather that had besieged the facility came a rampant long lasting upper respiratory infection that had afflicted pretty much everyone working under the mountain, including a less then pleased Birkin. The boy had been one of the first to catch it about a week ago and was still coughing, sneezing, and otherwise spreading his germs around.

Despite Birkin's best efforts to the contrary Wesker was fairly certain that he'd compromised several of their experiments with his cold; a fact Marcus would have been furious with if the recluse hadn't boarded himself up in one of the lowest levels, refusing to make contact with anyone possibly carrying the virus.

Wesker had a suspicion that this was partially why the maintenance crew couldn't get anything done. Either that or they were still held up at the entrance with security.

A series of hacking coughs further infuriated the shivering teen to the point where he actually kicked the wooden frame above him several times. He immediately regretted the decision as the cold air wasted no time in wafting under the sheets and accosting his bare skin, stealing any heat his body had managed to produce and replacing it with an outbreak of goosebumps. “Will! Shut up!” he hissed venomously, now even more pissed off and cold than before.

Wesker was rewarded for his effort by the sound of Birkin jumping and his startled intake of breath which set off another coughing fit.

Wesker groaned and lay back down in despair. He hadn't gotten a goodnight sleep since Birkin had gotten sick.

Once he was done hacking, William responded just a vehemently. “You know I can't help it, Al!” another sneeze. “I have a weak immune system!”

“Funny you decided to work with deadly viruses than,” responded Wesker hopelessly to the dark room.

“Oh shut it,” he moaned. “You know I haven't gotten any sleep either...”

Wesker chuckled. “I'll try to take some comfort in that.”

“Heartless bastard,” croaked Birkin.

Wesker let out a long sigh. “You taken anything for it tonight?”

“Yes,” muttered Birkin.

“When are you due next?”

“Two,” came the tired response.

Wesker checked his watch, the soft blue light weakly illuminating the room for a few seconds. “It's one thirty.”

“God I am miserable...an entire _week_ of absolute agony.”

Wesker laughed. “You make it sound like you're dying.”

“I _am_ ,” he insisted weakly.

“Than take your next dose. Thirty minutes isn't going to hurt you, especially if you're 'dying.'”

Birkin nodded. “Fine. I just wanna sleep.” Birkin attempted to get up but just ended up moaning about “indescribable pain.”

Deciding to take pity on his roommate who had been cursed with the combination of a weak immune system and a very low pain tolerance, Wesker stopped his torture. “I'll get you your bloody medicine, just quit crying.”

“I'm _not_ crying,” he sniffed. “But...thank you, Al.”

“Yeah, yeah,” muttered Wesker as he steeled himself for the cold that would accost him once he left the sanctuary of heat provided by his layers of blankets. “Where is it?”

“Top drawer on my side of the dresser,” he whispered.

Wesker gritted his teeth and slipped out of the blankets, immediately regretting this addition to his acts of charity towards Birkin that were becoming ever more frequent as of late. Using the light from his watch he searched though his partner's messy drawer until he finally located the desired bottle, cursing the freezing air that happily sucked the warmth right out of his exposed flesh. Hurriedly dumping out two of the capsules in his hands that would hopefully keep Birkin asleep for the rest of the night, he replaced the container and grabbed an unopened bottle of water from his much more organized side of the dresser top.

Remedy in hand, Wesker climbed up two of the ladder's steps and offered William the pills and bottle, his elbows resting on the covers of Birkin's bed. “Here.”

“Thank you, Al,” Birkin repeated in a relieved sigh. “You're an _angel_.” He quickly popped the capsules into his mouth and forced them down his dry, sore throat.

Wesker snorted. “Hardly.” He offered Birkin the water bottle so that he could flush the pills out of his esophagus where they had stuck halfway down.

“No really, I mean that,” he vowed hoarsely after greedily gulping down most the water.

Wesker smirked and regarded him almost curiously. He looked so weak and helpless. It was...strangely appealing.

Wesker took the proffered near empty bottle that had brought him back to reality. Without a second thought he drained the rest before tossing it over his shoulder. It sailed in an unseen graceful arch though the air before landing perfectly in the trash can.

“Al!” cried Birkin his voice cracking. He grabbed Weskers shoulder in protest to the teen's most recent actions. “Why did you _do_ that?! Now _you're_ going to be sick!”

Wesker grinned at him though the darkness. “I don't get sick, Will. Never have.”

Birkin blinked. “That's...fascinatingly strange... I'm envious.”

“I'll bet.” came the snide response. “But I hear you're dying soon so you won't have to be jealous for much longer.”

Birkin was too tired to retort. He removed his hand from Wesker's shoulder but not before he'd realized that the contact had been skin on skin.

Birkin gave him a quizzical look. “Al...are you not wearing a shirt?”

Wesker shook his head.

“God you must be freezing!”

Wesker grimaced. “You have _no_ idea, Will.”

“What does...?” Birkin trailed off unsure of the meaning behind Wesker's words.

Wesker just shook his head. “You had _better_ stop coughing now.” With that, the older boy jumped down and quickly buried his shivering body under the sheets.

For some reason the skin where William's hand had been almost burned. Wesker dismissed it as being due to the boy's fever even though he'd thought that had dissipated two days ago.

* * *

_September 24th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

The day was slow. Miserably so. Since the previous month they hadn't really made much headway with the uncooperative Progenitor Virus that seemed hell bent on brutally killing anything it was exposed to. Though vast amounts of information had been learned since the discovery of the virus in 1966, Wesker believed that the last real progress made was the splicing of Progenitor with other viruses leading to the ability to infect a diverse number of organisms with the pathogen.

Such thinking meant that all the months he had Birkin had spent with Progenitor, while highly informative, really amounted to nothing. A less than encouraging thought. Furthermore, today they'd hit a proverbial wall, this lack of initiative further precipitated by the freezing temperature and Birkin's currently debilitating cold.

“This is pointless,” muttered Wesker in frustration as he pushed himself away from the microscope through which he had been remotely observing the rapid division of the heavily contained infected cells on the other side of the glass for about the tenth time this morning.

“It's not-” a sneeze “-pointless, Al,” finished Birkin sniffling as he blew his nose noisily into a tissue before tossing it into the near full trash can beside his work bench.

Wesker swiveled his rotating chair moodily back and fourth with his foot. “We're at a dead end. Until Doctor Marcus returns our last samples and data sets, there is absolutely _nothing_ new to do.”

“That's not-”

Wesker sent him a glare.

Birkin sighed. “Perhaps...you are correct...”

Wesker's smirk at the fact Birkin had admitted he was right was weak and faded quickly before he just leaned his head back in the chair, his limp neck arched over its back.

William too remained silent and motionless for a few minutes before getting up and moving stiffly over to Wesker.

Albert cracked an eye in an almost feline fashion from behind his dark lenses at the approach, otherwise remaining unresponsive.

“Bored?” Birkin questioned in a way that said his own answer to the inquiry would have been “yes.”

“Mmhm,” was the only response made by the teen who was seriously considering taking this rare lull to catch up on some of the sleep Birkin's cold had been robbing him of.

Birkin stood there unmoving for several long seconds, then again broke the silence. “Al...” he started tentatively, “would you mind assisting me in a personal experiment?”

Wesker opened one of his eyes, positioning the chair so that he could better regard the young doctor looking curiously down at him. “Depends on what that would entail.”

Birkin considered his words for a moment. “You taking your shirt off.”

Wesker jerked up in the chair he had moments ago been reclined in, his body going rigid. “What?” he hissed dangerously.

Birkin just laughed as well as his cold would allow. “Also some blood draws and a few other tests.”

Wesker continued to scrutinize him with a look halfway between confusion and suspicion.

“A physical, Al,” giggled Birkin.

Wesker relaxed ...slightly. “Why?”

A pregnant pause. “I'm curious...”

Wesker's brows knitted together.

“You know, about what you said last night. About not getting sick.”

 _And you're a Wesker._ The words were unspoken, but they hung in the air between the two, too ominous to ignore.

The long silence seemed as though it would stretch out indefinitely until Wesker eventually broke it. “Fine.”

“Excellent,” beamed Birkin clapping his hands together. “Let's get started.”

Before Wesker could change his mind he'd been dragged over to a steel examination table where Birkin “encouraged” him to sit down. The older teen felt several pangs of anxiousness shoot through him as he watched Birkin gather various pieces of medical equipment and deposit them on another nearby table.

Suddenly, the previously “deathly ill” man was bounding with energy.

“Just how extensive are you planning on being, Will?” questioned Wesker suspiciously when he saw how large the supply pile had grown.

Birkin paused for a moment, looking between Wesker and his tools of examination. “As much as I need to be.”

“Wonderful,” glared Wesker. “I feel loads better now.”

Ignoring him, Birkin made a series of strange hand motions. “Well go on, lie down and take your shirt off.”

Wesker grimaced as he removed his lab coat and then the black turtle neck sweater and tee shirt he'd been wearing underneath it, his chest and arms immediately breaking out in goosebumps due to the chilly air. As he lay down he was beginning to think this had been a really, _really_ bad idea.

Birkin paused as he roamed over his lab partner's chest with his pale blue eyes. It was true there were times when he'd been around Albert when he wasn't wearing a shirt, but without an excuse to stare, he'd just nervously averted his eyes, the gesture sometimes accompanied with a blush. Now that he had a chance to fully appreciate Wesker's bare torso, Birkin completely understood the reason's his colleague spent so many hours in the facility's gym after working in their lab.

The sleekly defined muscles extending over his arms, chest, and down his abdomen caused Birkin to retract all the comments he'd made about how Wesker spending time with the grunts being trained for the UBCS ( _Umbrella Biohazard Countermeasure Service)_ was dumbing him down by proximity and destruction of his brain cells though sparing induced trauma.

Honestly Birkin didn't really understand his obsession with this Wesker. It was true that the title he used for a last name made Albert fascinating by default, since Umbrella had chosen him from among billions to be a part their top secret Project W where they had done God only knows what to him, but these feelings went beyond that.

Wesker was the most intelligent, intuitive, and driven individual Birkin had ever met. His ingenuity rivaled not only that of the higher ups in Umbrella like Dr. Marcus, but even Birkin's own abilities. This ingeniousness coupled with his calm almost cruelly cold demeanor, unexplored sadistic tendencies, and physical prowess made Wesker the most captivating specimen William had ever had the pleasure of examining. But perhaps most mesmerizing of all Wesker's unique qualities, was the boy's own confusion as he tried as desperately as Birkin to decipher all the wonderful mysteries that made Albert Wesker who he was.

The thought of finally getting to fully explore everything about the glowering, half naked, but obviously nervous Wesker before him sent a thrill of electric anticipation though Birkin's body. He had quite literally dreamed of this occasion off and on for months, the results causing less then desired physical manifestations on his sleeping body that, in their own right, were equally as intriguing. But one step at a time. Right now, Wesker was at his finger tips for the remainder of the day. He was _not_ going to waste this opportunity.

On the contrary, Wesker's own feelings towards Birkin remained a bit of a _purposely_ unsolved mystery. Birkin made him feel a strange intimate closeness he'd never experienced with anyone else. He'd supposed this was friendship. For the first time, Wesker felt as though he'd finally met someone he could relate to; who understood him and could sympathize with the past he'd struggled though and the dark future they were both headed towards. Wesker felt as though he'd found someone whom he could share his true thoughts with without holding back, bounce complex ideas off of that would have crushed anyone else, and basically rely on to be there when things got complicated...even if the younger boy was hiding in a corner quivering.

Speaking of which, Wesker for some ungodly reason loved seeing the timid boy in pain or with fear written all over his mousy features and showing throughout his fragile looking body. For obvious reasons, Wesker had avoided exploring those feelings as though he was worried doing so would infect him with Progenitor. More accurately though, Wesker was afraid that doing so would lead him further down a dark path he wasn't sure he wanted to be on or from which he could turn around.

Starting as only whispers at first, these odd inclinations towards Birkin had magnified over the past five months they'd spent together in the cold lab and their tight quarters until Wesker had no idea of how to properly interpret, let alone deal with them.

The feeling of Birkin's gloved hands on his chest brought him back to reality rather abruptly. It seems the physical was starting. Wesker swallowed. This was _definitely_ _not_ a good idea.

The first things to go onto Wesker's exposed skin were the twelve lead ECG pads which would be used to display a full picture of Wesker's perfectly normal, if not slightly elevated heart rate, on the large monitor. Wesker had figured that this was something he should expect but he had no idea why Birkin was putting them on so strangely! There was _no_ reason for William to touch the areas designated for placement so much, was there? Wesker shook his head which caused Birkin to bark at him to hold still. Perhaps he was reading too much into it. But damn if Birkin's hands weren't hot.

Within the next few minutes, Wesker had been hooked to every available monitor, each of them showing various readings taken from his body. He had more wires stuck to him then he could count. Now William was adding a few more to the mix as he hooked Wesker up to a device that would measure and record his brainwaves.

“Is _all_ of this really necessary, Will?” asked Wesker almost pleadingly. He was getting sick of being Birkin's new test subject; for good reason too as usually, they all _died_.

“Shush,” admonished Birkin curtly.

Wesker growled in frustration but otherwise remained cooperative for the time being.

Birkin was feeling his way around Wesker's scalp as he searched for the best places to stick his latest set of pads. During his unwelcome but oddly relaxing roaming of Wesker's head, the searching fingers brushed up against something Wesker would have rather Birkin's digits had not discovered: his scar.

“What's this?” The curious teen doctor inquired as his careful fingertips mapped out the old incision's surface.

“Nothing,” mumbled the owner of the assaulted region of skin. Wesker had already had enough of Birkin's questioning about the unknown origin of his only other noteworthy scar when the researcher had grilled him over the four inch long, rather jagged one on his left forearm just below his elbow a few minutes prior. That particular line of questioning had ended in the very unbelievable lie of, “I fell out of a tree as a child.” Not that the truth, “I have no bloody clue,” would have been much better.

“Al...is this from a surgery?” Birkin was getting really excited over the first really abnormal finding in his “physical.”

“I don't know. Probably,” Wesker grumbled. He knew Birkin was not going to let this go, he could see it in the way his eyes were sparkling. It was the same way they did when he discovered something new about Progenitor. For some inadequately explored reason, despite not wanting Birkin prodding around in that area of his past, Wesker felt a strange sense of elation that something about him could cause that same reaction in his partner.

After a few seconds more of thoughtful palpating of the scar, Birkin suddenly started pulling off all the devices he'd attached to Wesker's smooth skin, unmindful of any painful yanking on Wesker's flesh or ripping out of the fine, near invisible blond hair on Wesker's arms and legs.

“Will! Ouch! Hey watch it!” came Wesker's unheeded protests. “What?!”

“I want to give you an MRI,” Birkin announced, for some reason breathless.

The excited look in his pale eyes coupled with the nature of his voice did something funny to Wesker's stomach and throat, preventing him from protesting as Birkin dragged him firmly by the arm off the table and out of their lab's doors.

Wesker couldn't explain why he was feeling so warm and light headed as Birkin pulled him over to the rooms that contained the scanning device needed to examine the inner contours of Wesker's brain—maybe he _was_ getting William's cold after all.

Though Wesker had confirmed earlier that his roommate hadn't had a high temperature in two days, Birkin's body felt like it was burning up with fever, the places where William's hands were gripping his arms or brushing up against his side felt as if they'd been accosted by a searing flame; a sensation that was driving him crazy.

Wesker puzzled over this set of unexplained sensations for several minutes as William prepped him to go into the non-invasive procedure, unable to come up with a logical explanation as Birkin took a quick X-ray of his head to ensure that no metal had been implanted underneath the surgical scar.

After confirming that Wesker was metal free, Birkin proceeded to ready him to go into the MRI machine and Wesker's self searching was brought to a quick halt. At the moment he was too preoccupied to accurately decipher anything with the fact that the preparation required him to remove both his sunglasses and his trousers so that the metal of his zipper would not be affected by the machine's magnet

It wasn't until the precise moment Birkin sent him into the device on the mechanical table that Wesker was able to correctly interpret the feelings and fully understand why the unbearable heat from Birkin's touches had traveled so low.

“I need you to hold absolutely still, Al!” called Birkin's voice over the microphone from the glass observation room he'd just sprinted to, the panting quality of his voice further complicating the situation. “This is going to take _at_ _least_ thirty minutes!”

Wesker mentally cursed with every nasty word in his vocabulary. Thirty blasted minutes to contemplate why he had a hard on for Doctor William Birkin!

One might have imagined that a half an hour of silence in the small cylindrical space created by the MRI machine would have given Wesker plenty of time to cool down. However, such a tactic doesn't work when one is perseverating the entire time about all the reasons they were hot and bothered in the first place.

For the whole of the thirty five minutes Wesker was trapped within the device, all he could do was replay every odd moment that had passed between the two scientists since they'd first met in that tiny excuse for a room they now shared, looking at each event in this strange new light. All the seemingly innocent touches and brushes, strange hints, and absurd jokes...they now had such a different meaning. Just like how Birkin's awkward grins never really just meant he was happy.

Unfortunately, the results of his actions were causing Wesker to grow harder against his own thigh.

 _Dammit!_ He silently swore. This was not good, not even close. The worst part was that many of the advancements he had, for the first time, just identified as such, had come from Birkin's end. This in combination with the scientist's curiosity driven personally made it very likely that if Wesker didn't get his suddenly raging hormones under control, this strangeness would escalate to levels he was unable to truly fathom.

He didn't want that...right?

Wesker shuddered internally. He wasn't sure. It's not like he had anything to go off of.

Since Wesker began his unnaturally sped up race though the world's best education systems he'd only focused on just that: His education. If he didn't have time to bother with friends, there was no way he had time to consider any sort of significant other. Sure there had been the occasional girl that had caught his eye, but that's all it had ever been, a glance, a short lived wistful thought and then he'd pulled himself back to reality.

This deliberate asexuality had left Wesker a complete virgin, even to his own touch. As such, the current situation was light years beyond anything that had come before and equally as far from his comfort level.

Then on top of everything else, he was experiencing these powerful feelings for another _male_ , something Wesker _never_ could have predicted. In all honestly, this was probably more because of the fact that he'd only ever been this close to Birkin than any sort of tendency towards favoring individuals of the same sex.

All of this paled in comparison to the fact that he desperately needed to gain back his precariously slipping control.

Wesker had discovered long ago that he was a control freak. He had to have absolute command over every last aspect of his life. The current loss of his mind's ability to command the persistently growing fire in his physical being was causing his breath to hitch just as much as his rapidly intensifying thoughts of William in increasingly compromising situations.

Every cell in Wesker's body froze as the table started to withdraw smoothly from the cave of solitude offered by the device, carrying Wesker who was even harder than when he'd entered into the open where his lack of control over his body would be plainly visible to Birkin's perceptive eyes.

Wesker sat up as soon as he was able, positioning his bare legs so they would prevent a quickly approaching Birkin from seeing his stiff cock through the thin black fabric of his boxers. He really wished he had more on than just his underwear, a thought that hadn't even remotely been facilitated by the once cold feeling air.

Birkin was fortunately too absorbed in his delivery of his results to the owner of the abnormal scan to notice the nervous trepidation with which the usually unfazeable Albert Wesker was watching him.

“You have a significant amount of scar tissue surrounding your hippocampus, Al and some mild scaring in the surrounding areas, especially between it and the incision site.”

Birkin was talking fast, but even if he'd been speaking in slow motion Wesker doubted he could accurately interpret what the man was saying. Despite his best efforts, the needy fire inside him was increasing in its intensity. Wesker swallowed hard wondering how much longer he could feign indifference.

“Have you ever had any instances of memory problems?”

It took Wesker several moments to realize that the pause in the rapid flow of words from Birkin's lips meant he had asked him a question.

“W-what?” he managed, trying to prevent his voice from cracking. _Dammit! This shouldn't be happening to me!_ He had to get things together... _now!_

Birkin sighed, folding his arms. “Very funny, Al. But seriously, any memory issues? Any whatsoever? I mean I know you're brilliant but...”

Wesker actually displayed the slightest bit of a flush at the complement. “No...Yes...but not currently I mean-” A hurried breath. He was tripping over his bloody words and almost blushing? What was next? He felt as though he'd been drugged. “I mean, nothing currently but...there was a time when...” He sighed looking away. “I can't remember anything before age ten. They told me I was in a motor vehicle accident but...”

He'd told Birkin just as much because he honestly miraculously trusted him as because he could no longer really think straight.

Birkin frowned, deciding to tackle Albert's odd behavior later. “That's funny...from what I saw from the scan it didn't look like any other structures were damaged, just that one area, and your physical body shows no signs of serious trauma.” He did a quick glance over of Wesker's body, most of which was hidden by his pulled in knees. Birkin blinked at his partner's odd positioning.

Wesker shrugged. “I always suspected it was a lie.” No he _knew_ it was, but he wasn't going to tell Birkin everything yet, maybe never, but certainly not during this crazy situation.

“Curious...” Birkin mused. A pause. “Um...Al, are you uh...cold?” Birkin questioned in an unsure manner.

Wesker only further drew his knees up. “No, not really.” Not even a little bit. God he was so fucking hot!

Birkin nodded, knitting his brows together as he further scrutinized the suddenly modest teen. Albert was acting weird, he'd been doing so since this physical had started and escalating by the minute. As of yet, Birkin had no idea of the reasoning behind Wesker's inability to look him in the eye, current scrunched up positioning, or wincing shudders every time Birkin laid a hand on him. He had a few theories; nothing concrete.

One of the possibilities caused a little briefly lived flutter of excitement to erupt in Birkin's chest, but it was so improbable... There was no way Wesker feelings towards Birkin could extend to the levels of the strange obsession he carried for the older blond.

_Impossible. Best to ignore the abnormality and move on._

“Oh! I almost forgot!” Birkin produced a small sterile package from his lab coat pocket containing a blood draw kit as well as a few tubes in which to collect the blood.

“Now?” asked Wesker in exasperation. “Can't it wait?”

Birkin laughed. “What? Scared of needles?”

He glared. “No...I just...now is a bad time.” He looked away.

Somehow Birkin found it all absolutely adorable.

Grinning slightly, Birkin ignored his excuses and pulled Wesker's arm from where it was wrapped firmly around his knees.

“Will!” Wesker yelled in protest. But the tourniquet had already gone around his bicep and Birkin was currently searching for a good vein. Wesker certainly had a lot of those.

Deciding more uncooperativeness would only succeed in further complicating the situation, Wesker gritted his teeth and helpfully extended his arm, resting the elbow on his own knee.

Knowing why his skin tingled and burned where William touched it didn't help, and in all actuality, it probably made the situation worse.

Wesker shivered as Birkin deftly advanced the small hallow needle underneath his skin. He barely managed to force himself to remain still as Birkin attached a syringe to the catheter and slowly withdrew about ten milliliters of the burning blood pumping quickly throughout his body.

The young doctor carelessly left the blood filled catheter hanging from Wesker's arm, the combination of the good vein and still attached tourniquet causing a small but steady stream of blood to drip from the open end of the catheter and down Wesker's arm.

Birkin had obviously intended for Wesker to remove the equipment himself and hold pressure at the puncture site while he filled the tiny tubes with his friend's blood. Wesker knew this, but there was something about the steady unhindered flow of the warm blood down his arm and then over his leg before it started to collect on the table that was pushing him over the edge, advancing the pulsating heat within him to unbearable levels.

He couldn't fight this any more. It was pointless.

When Birkin turned back to his cherished specimen he cried out in shock, eyes widening as he saw the tiny river of blood trickling down Wesker's arm and pooling on the table all while Albert just stared at it as if mesmerized. Immediately dropping what he was doing, the small crimson filled vials rolling across the floor, Birkin yanked off the tourniquet, removed the catheter, and held pressure over the tiny spot. “Al! What the hell were you doing?!”

He winced as he felt Albert's blood contaminating his bare hands; he'd only just taken the gloves off of so he could more easily write on the vials. His scientific mind was screaming at him not to touch the ruby drops containing who knew what since Umbrella had gotten a hold of Wesker, but the look on Wesker's face following his actions was too captivating to allow him to release the bloodied appendage.

Suddenly, as if he'd just released the latch on the door of a caged wild animal, Wesker's hungry arms were around him, yanking Birkin forcefully down on the table so that he was straddling the older blond, finally exposing Birkin to the heat he'd been unknowingly inflicting on Wesker for the past hour or so.

“Al?!” Birkin gasped. This sudden display of uncontrolled lust was the last thing he'd expected from Albert who was always so cool and collected...until he snapped that is... But this...Birkin had never expected this: Wesker's fire engulfing his body that was already beginning to reciprocate the burning feelings of urgency reflected in Wesker's stormy eyes, Wesker's hard member digging into his thigh, and the warm crimson liquid he'd been appalled by moments ago staining the fabric of his white lab coat and wiping across his startled flushed features as Wesker roughly caressed his face and hair.

“W-what are you doing?” stuttered Birkin as his hands snaked around Wesker's shoulders, partly to steady his precarious position, partly because he suddenly discovered he too wanted this closeness.

For a moment only Wesker's heavy breathing and burning eyes answered him. It was a little late to back out now. It would be impossible for the ever perceptive William not to understand the reasons behind his actions; he doubted anyone could really misinterpret them at this point. Not to mention the blood from his arm that was now smeared in small amounts over Birkin's frozen features and light blond hair was driving the more animalistic part of Wesker wild with a sort of blood lust he'd never known had existed within him.

“Consider it part of the experiment.”

That was all he'd managed to force out.

The comparison along with the unnatural huskiness of Wesker's voice caused a thrill of unbridled excitement shoot down Birkin's own body, his grip tightening around Wesker's bare shoulders. An experiment. That's _exactly_ what Birkin wanted.

“Mmph-” Before he could respond properly to his colleague's intriguing offer, Wesker had clamped his lips over Birkin's, the inexperienced movements drawing William eagerly into a new series of tests he'd never dreamed of preforming on his fascinating specimen.

Unknowing hands tentatively yet urgently explored areas neither had ever really considered venturing until this point, each new movement and touch sending jolts of pleasure though their neurons and causing small muffled gasps to escape between their locked mouths.

As if in response to the explosively cultivated blazes in their own bodies, the room's temperature seemed to increase almost exponentially.

The two separated just long enough to catch their ragged breaths and for Birkin to remove his lab coat and shirt. Somehow, in those few moments, the ever observant younger scientist uncovered what he viewed as part of the reason they were both starting to sweat.

“Huh,” he panted as Wesker hands began to map out his naked chest. “Looks like they...nha...f-fixed the heat. Ah!”

Wesker slightly growled in annoyance at the ridiculous observation but followed Birkin's gesture to the vent located directly above them. Sure enough Wesker could feel the, by comparison, insignificantly warm air wafting down towards them.

Wesker managed to raise an eyebrow as he pulled William back towards him, relaxing his own back until it rested on the table. “W-Will,” he swallowed hard, “I seriously d-doubt that has a thing to do...ugh...do with it.” Wesker informed him as Birkin decided to find out what happened when he accosted Wesker exposed neck and clavicle with his mouth.

Things only got hotter from there.

Wesker allowed Birkin take the position he'd made a show of claiming during their first day together for a few more minutes before Wesker grew sick of slow, gentle, cautious way Birkin was exploring his body, not to mention his lack of control provided by the lower position. Grabbing Birkin firmly by his shoulders, Wesker braced himself with his legs and attempted to roll their bodies sideways until their stations were switched.

He ended up knocking them both off of the narrow table and onto the floor, Birkin taking the brunt off the fall.

The younger blond saw stars as his head hit the hard tile and then began to throb as painfully as his other one still did within his now tight trousers. The fall and the pain had been completely unexpected, leaving him dazed and very vulnerable to man above him who seemed to enjoy every pained look and sound he uttered.

Though Wesker's knees were now smarting painfully he didn't stop. Taking advantage of William's current state, Wesker grabbed a handful of his straw colored hair and yanked his head backwards, further abusing the smarting area and exposing the pale skin of his neck to Wesker's sharp unforgiving teeth.

Birkin's cries milked from his still sore throat by the apposing combination of pain and pleasure Wesker was inflicting upon him only succeeded in egging Wesker on.

The darker part of Wesker that he had been still, up until this point, cautiously exploring; the one that enjoyed seeing the helpless man pinned and writhing beneath his thighs had taken over. Wesker wanted him to scream. It was a desire just as strong as the throbbing need still held captive within the fabric of his boxers.

Birkin moaned as his body tried to decide which stimuli was more pressing: the agony or the ecstasy. He would soon find that the pair went hand in hand when one was this close to Albert Wesker.

Unable to force himself to pull away from the veritable animal biting sharply at his neck before soothing the reddened skin with a series of licks and sucks, and whose nails were raking down his sides, Birkin only managed to hold on desperately to Wesker's strong shoulders and cry his name in a mix of protest and desire.

No longer willing to hold back any more, Wesker moved his unskilled fingers to Birkin's belt, tugging ineffectively at the blasted contraption for a few seconds until Birkin's by comparison steady hands helped him to remove the offending obstacle.

Wesker's steel blue eyes, clouded over with lust, locked with Birkin's in response. The fact that the younger scientist's own gaze was so clear caused Wesker pause for a few moments before he slid the fabric, briefs and all, down Birkin's boney legs.

Once the pants were significantly out of the way, Birkin moved his own hands from where they had been soothingly stroking Wesker's sides down to the one article of clothing still clinging to Wesker's slick sweat sheened body. Slowly, agonizingly so, Birkin pulled away the only thing separating their two burning bodies from each other, all the while staring directly into Wesker's smoldering orbs. Then Birkin did the strangest thing: he smiled. It was so calm, so peaceful... The seemly innocent action, so out of place and alien in this hasty act of lust sent Wesker reeling.

Just as suddenly as Wesker had seized dominance by ruthlessly throwing the pair off the table, Birkin had taken it back with only a gentle curving up of his swollen lips.

Now in command of the situation, Birkin was still for a few beats before pulling Wesker down towards him with just a light pressure at the small of his back. Once they were inches apart, Wesker's weight supported with an elbow on either side of Birkin's face, Birkin slowly reached down and wrapped his long fingers around their pulsating members, the touch causing them to both gasp. Setting a steady pace Birkin began to pump them in unison from shaft to base.

Birkin's icy blue eyes closed as his head lolled back, breaking their bizarre staring contest for the first time as he allowed himself to fully enjoy the feeling of friction and the throbbing fever of Wesker's swollen cock against his own.

Released by Birkin's gaze, but not his hand slicked with the combined wetness of their precum, Wesker allowed his head to fall forward, forehead resting on Birkin's rapidly rising and falling chest as he rode the new sensations sending sweet waves of pleasure crashing through his body, his hips rocking slightly with each pump of Birkin's soft hand.

With every passing second the feeling of pressure building in Wesker stomach and cock escalated until it began to reach an unbearable level, the pitch and volume of their moans and cries of pleasure rising with it.

Unable to take Birkin's agonizing pace any longer, Wesker added his hand to the white hot cone between them, setting a much more desperate jerking rhythm Birkin's fingers were obliged to follow.

Wesker pressed his face into Birkin's slick neck and winced his eyes shut. His rapid breath against the other scientist's skin was frequently interrupted by unbidden noises of pleasure that along with Birkin's would make any other facility worker passing by the MRI room to seriously wonder about the nature of the experiments they were conducting.

Thankfully, they experienced no such rude interruptions.

In response to the insatiable and suddenly greatly magnified desire to be as close as possible to the writhing body beneath him, Wesker pressed his mouth once again to Birkin's hot wet one. The sloppy joining of lips, teeth and tongues muffled their final desperate cries as their shaking bodies released messy streams of hot seed over each other's chests and stomachs; Wesker cumming seconds before Birkin's own fluid joined the sticky mess.

For a while they just breathed, basking in the brief period of afterglow before their ever active minds forced them back into the reality of the situation and the problem they'd just created: How were they going to deal with their professional relationship now that they had shattered all the boundaries that had been set between them?

“Fascinating,” murmured Birkin into Wesker's disheveled blond hair, his free hand still resting loosely around Wesker's waist while he moved the hand that had been wrapped firmly around their cocks up in front of his own face. He absentmindedly rubbed the white substance between his fingers as if examining it.

“W-What is that supposed to mean?” questioned Wesker though a shudder as he moved his soiled hand to rest awkwardly at their sides. He still didn't think he had the energy to get off his panting colleague and didn't want to humiliate himself trying to do so on his trembling limbs. At this point, he wasn't willing to meet William's eyes either.

The way Birkin had said that...it sounded almost like he was only referring to an experiment... It was true Wesker had used that excuse as a premise for the act they had both just taken part of, but he wasn't sure if he only wanted to view it as such anymore.

Much to Wesker's chagrin, Birkin moved the dirty hand into Wesker's now even messier hair.

“Everything.”

The words were soft, _almost_ caring, but they were enough to get Wesker's rigid body to relax into Birkin's.

“Is this going to be a repeated experiment? Or did you get everything you needed for me, Doctor Birkin?”

His words were mocking, teasing to cover up his true feelings of insecurity and need for the man still trapped beneath him. This had been his first time with his first and only friend; perhaps the only person who could view him as anything but the test subject he'd just amounted himself to.

Birkin chuckled. “I think I can manage at least a few follow ups for my most intriguing specimen to date.” Birkin pulled him almost unnoticeably closer, the volume of his voice lowering. “Honestly, Al, I doubt I could learn everything there is to know about you even if you gave me a lifetime in which to do it.”

That was enough for Wesker.

A life time, as short lived as that may have been for Birkin, Wesker would give him.

* * *

_September 24th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

Several long hours later, filled with the arduous task of erasing any signs of their risky tryst in the MRI exam room and then making it look like they'd actually done something useful in the lab today, the two had returned wearily to their shared room, each collapsing into the now comfortably warm atmosphere provided by their separate beds.

A few more hours later, Wesker sneezed. An action that was followed by a small coughing fit that erupted from his somewhat sore throat.

Birkin chuckled from above. “What was that about _'never'_ getting sick, Al?”

“Shut up,” snarled Wesker kicking the bed above him. Of course he was going to catch Birkin's cold after _that_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd really appreciate any sort of comments on this chapter for obvious reasons, especially considering the fact that this was the first posted lemon and I'm always looking to improve.
> 
> Thank you for reading,
> 
> -Asiera


	9. PG07A/W: Unknown and Unforgotten

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Eve, his birthday...Wesker hates the 24th of December. It was the day everything broke. Thanks to Laura Muller he knows this; he knows exactly what took place that day and who is responsible, but due to the unethical invasion of his mind by the company exactly seven years ago, he can't remember it. He does get flashes, emotions, and massive headaches every December as his fractured mind desperately tries to remember but only comes up with blanks. Usually he can handle it; he's developed coping mechanisms for this sort of thing by now, but trapped in a hauntingly familiar facility, working for the very company that did this to him, he may need help, something Wesker is loathed to admit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The below chapter contains explicit sexual content. If this is something the bothers you, the "clean-ish" version can be found on my FanFiction account, here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8664148/9/Project-W
> 
> If you're fine with this material, by all means continue reading.

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG07A/W: Unknown and Unforgotten**

_December 11th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

The soft beeping of the alarm on Birkin's watch was like a siren to Wesker's pounding temples. Wesker rolled over and yanked the covers over his head. His entire body felt stiff and was just as unwilling as his pounding mind to get up and greet this dreadful day.

It was December and every day in this godforsaken month brought him one step closer to the torture that awaited him in the final days leading up to the equally horrid holiday known as Christmas.

He hated every goddamn minute of it.

It took Birkin until he was completely dressed to realize that Wesker still hadn't moved. This puzzled him, usually Wesker, though certainly not a morning person, was up before him. Birkin blinked at the unmoving, blanket covered form. “Al?”

No response whatsoever.

Birkin frowned. His friend had been acting rather strangely for the past week or so. Come to think about it, Wesker had been “off” since the beginning of the month.

“Al.” More forcefully this time but still yielding a similar result.

Birkin huffed in annoyance. Sure, Wesker's behavior was pretty normal for a teenager—if it hadn't been around that special time of year when even Dr. Marcus cracked a smile once in awhile—but they didn't have the luxury to mope about in bed like most individuals their age when they were having a bad day.

Too many of those and you ended up like Stephen.

“Come on, Al, get up! It takes you over an _hour_ to get ready every morning and I'd _like_ to be in the lab before eight today. We have a ton of new tests to run per Marcus's orders.” He was almost whining.

When he still didn't get an adequate response from Albert, Birkin became rather annoyed. “Al! Seriously!” He probably shouldn't have but Birkin attempted the trick of pulling all the bed covers off the semi-conscious Wesker in order further motivate him to get up. It was a bad idea.

He got the blankets _mostly_ off his colleague's naked form before he was met by some rather violent retaliation from a seething Wesker. Birkin was grabbed the the lapels of his lab coat and yanked down inches from Albert's livid face.

“Dammit, Will! I _heard_ you the first three times!” he yelled angrily.

Wesker looked exhausted; now he too bore the same dark circles William always wore under his own eyes. He also looked paler than usual...and significantly more pissed off then he did on the average day. The fact that Birkin had to steady himself by placing his hands on both of Wesker's bare arms seemed to only further anger the youth. Well it was either that of fall in his only slightly obscured lap.

“You look horrible,” Birkin stated bluntly. This may have seemed like a suicide move to most—insulting Wesker when he was highly ticked off and had William in such a precarious situation—but after working with Wesker for seven months and “dating” him—if their interesting relationship could be summed if with such a word—for three, it took quite a lot of effort on the older blond's part to intimidate him. In all honesty, Birkin wasn't really even scared of him any more.

Sure, it was true that Albert was know for his violent streaks—something Birkin was not spared from and he had a few little scars to prove it—but as far as he knew, he was the _only_ person in the world who could calm Wesker down and at least partially control that animalistic rage the he harbored towards almost everyone and everything around him. Birkin prided himself in that regard.

Wesker scowled. “Shut up.” It was all he could manage to do in response to William's steady calm gaze and gentle stroking fingers on his arms. He hated how Birkin could influence him so much. Wesker pushed him away and rubbed at his already throbbing temples. He didn't even bother to re-cover up with the stolen sheets. What was the point? It wasn't as if it was something Birkin hadn't seen before on multiple occasions.

“You sick again?” questioned an actually concerned Birkin as he pressed the back of his hand to Wesker's cool forehead.

Wesker shooed him away. “It was one time, Will, one bloody time!” He sighed. “Let it go already,” grumbling.

Birkin laughed. “But it was so amusing, Mr. 'I never get sick'.”

“It's an expression, Will.”

He was stretching now, almost cat-like in nature. Not only was it appealing to watch as his muscles rippled over his lithe body, it also meant he was getting up.

“A false one,” commented Birkin.

Wesker continued to glare, running a hand through his uncharacteristically messy blond hair.

“Okay, fine. I _rarely_ get sick and only when some virus leaching imbecile gets his body's various fluids all over me. Happy?

Birkin snorted. “Are you getting up?”

Wesker scowled at him for a full thirty seconds before responding. “Yes.”

Birkin happily clapped his hands together. “Excellent! I will see you in the cafeteria.” He was already disappearing out the door.

Wesker sighed tiredly and allowed himself to collapse down on his bed, moving so his forearm was covering his face. He hadn't slept, not really anyways. His nights of full restful sleep had vanished about a week ago as the day he dreaded most began rapidly approaching. Each new sign of the coming holiday brought with it a myriad of nasty symptoms: Restless nights filled with what must have been horrible dreams because he woke up gasping in cold sweats unable to remember what left him shaking; unpredictable mood swings ranging between rage, borderline euphoric happiness, and anhedonia inducing apathy.

Every December he came extremely close to meeting the criteria for being properly diagnosed with Bipolar II disorder; he'd checked.

Worst of everything that came during this horrid month were the headaches. They weren't like the ones he usually got—maybe two or three a week and completely manageable if he took the proper countermeasures—these were five time as intense; practically head splitting, and they lasted for most of the day, everyday.

Wesker had been plagued by this nasty affliction every twelfth month for as long as he could recount and he “knew” why. But “knowing” the origins of such pain didn't even begin to help his situation. Perhaps it actually made it worse.

He slowly pushed himself up so that he was sitting on the edge of his bunk. His eyes were inescapably drawn to the locked dresser drawer where, hidden underneath the binding of his first biochemistry book, rested the tattered worn note he had written himself almost seven years ago.

No matter how hard he tried or how many times he read and re-read those fading words, he couldn't _really_ remember. Sure he could construct false renditions in his altered brain, but it wasn't the same and he knew it. Most the time he could ignore this discomforting highly disconcerting fact, but whenever this time of year came around, and all the things that marked this month as special from every single other one in winter began assaulting him in ever increasing amounts, he found himself lost in this...this dark void.

The progression was simple. This disruption of his ability to properly function would always start around the second week in December and worsen each day until finally reaching a peek on Christmas Eve...his damned birthday.

He hated it. Hated his lack of control and the weakness he would eventually be unable to hide from those around him. It made him sick.

When he was at school, he would just take the month off, lock himself away in his dorm; away from anything and everything associated with Christmas, and therefore, his family's murders. This of course had no detrimental effects on his grades as he was easily able to keep up and submit all assignments after hours; finals were the only hard part, but he'd managed.

Now...now everything was different. He was here in this facility that looked so hauntingly familiar to the one he'd been taken too as a child, working for the same company that was responsible for everything horrible that had happened to him.

It was everywhere; he couldn't escape it. He felt like he was sleeping with the enemy.

_Birkin._

He winced, holding his head as his thoughts traveled to how literal that statement may have been.

He trusted William, more than he'd ever trusted anyone else and Birkin always seemed to be on his side of things, but when you got right down to it, Birkin was working for Umbrella; a child prodigy who'd been thrilled upon being chosen to join the ranks of the pharmaceutical giant. Yes, William was scared of the human experimentation aspect of it, but he'd do it. He'd done it on Stephen Wesker.

Wesker gritted his teeth. If William knew; if he ever found out Wesker had come here for the soul purpose of driving this monster into the ground, would he still stand by his side? Or would he stab him in the back?

Wesker's very nature commanded him to believe the latter, even if it hurt, physically _hurt_ to do so.

That fact alone made Wesker squirm. He'd gotten too close, gone too deep. Not getting his act together might quite literally be the death of him.

Forcing himself to get up, he stiffly made his way to the shower. He tried not to think of Birkin. He didn't need anything else making this month miserable.

* * *

 _December 20th_ _, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility_

Birkin wasn't stupid, in fact, he was a genius. He knew when something was seriously wrong. He also knew when he was being purposely avoided.

Wesker's recent steep, downhill spiral of emotions and functional status was not due to one of his typical mood swings that Birkin secretly referred to as “Wesker's Premenstrual Syndrome.” For over an entire week now, Wesker had started interacting less and less with him until now, they were barely talking—not to mentioned they hadn't had sex since Thanksgiving. For two teenagers new to their relationship, living in the same room and dealing with raging hormones, especially when one of them was Wesker, that was certainly a far cry from normal.

Something was really, really wrong and William was sick of being left in the dark and with picking up Wesker's slack so Marcus wouldn't find out about his partner's sudden lack of any form of motivation or productivity.

Birkin glanced over to the break room and scowled. Never had that room gotten as much use as it had over the past twenty days. It was as if he was hiding in there...perhaps he was.

Birkin would have felt bad except for the fact that Wesker had exploded at him last night over the stupidest thing: Christmas cards. Seeing the card Birkin's rather uninformed parents had sent him yesterday had sent the blond into a rage. So much so that he'd actually refused to reenter the room until Birkin had disposed of the blasted thing. Then he had left to sleep in their lab's break room from which he had yet to emerge.

Similar things had happened every time anything remotely involving Christmas had come up. The words “Scrooge” didn't even begin to describe Wesker's loathing for, and apparent pain caused by the day.

Honestly, Birkin hadn't cared that Wesker had ripped the card. His parents only did it for show; two cards a year, Christmas and Birthday, that was all he heard from them since he's been shipped away to some fancy boarding school at age eight. Well, that and then they'd shown up at every award ceremony so they could brag about their “little genius.” Birkin would have tossed the thing the next day anyways. No, what bothered him was that he wasn't able to even begin to ease Wesker out of that fit of anger. It was as though Wesker was purposely withdrawing from him, and that was _not_ something Birkin was about to let happen.

After he'd made sure the work from the previous night was in order, Birkin steeled himself and entered the break room. For all he knew, Wesker might no even be up yet, even though it was well past the eight o' clock hour.

It took William a while to locate Wesker in the completely darkened room. He was laying on the couch, long arms and legs curled in almost protectively so that the tall boy could fit within the small space, one arm draped over his face.

As far as Birkin could tell, he was asleep, but believing a “sleeping” Wesker wasn't dangerous was like trusting a resting serpent not to strike. As such, Birkin approached very cautiously...that is until he suddenly imposed himself on the already cramped sofa, pressing his back into Wesker's stomach to keep from falling off the narrow seat.

Wesker jerked awake muttering a few choice, mostly inaudible swear words in response to Birkin's rather rude invasion of his personal space.

“Hey,” he greeted in a rather monotone voice as he fought the urge to lean back into the comforting warmth provided by Wesker's body he'd been missing as of late.

Wesker glared daggers up at him. “What?”

Birkin sighed, clasping his hands together on his lap. Wesker knew from experience that William only did this when he was really bothered by something. “How much longer are we going to pretend nothing's wrong?”

Wesker had to desperately wrestle the desire to shove him off the couch while at the same time, contrarily ignoring the suppressed voice in his head informing Wesker of his need to let someone help him get through these final hellish days; to dull the pain if only just a little. Of course Wesker dismissed this “weakness” heatedly, his blatant disregard for his own emotional needs further adding to the boiling anger festering somewhere deep in his gut.

“Who said nothing's wrong? You're in my seat,” spat Wesker perhaps a little more venomously than he'd meant to.

Birkin rolled his eyes. Wesker could be so bloody stubborn! “I'm not retarded, Al. What the hell is wrong with you these days?” He started listing all of Wesker's problems on his fingers, each new complaint adding another long digit to the count. “You haven't been 'right' since November, your mood swings are bordering on clinically diagnosable, you 'freak out' every time anything remotely having to do with Christmas comes up, you've been _avoiding_ me all week, and finally, you've gotten so dismissive about your work that I've been _covering_ for you for _days_ and it's really starting to piss me off.” He held up a full spidery hand in front of Wesker's scowling face for full emphasis of the dire situation.

Wesker looked away, deciding to glare at Birkin's shoes instead of his nearly pleading face.

“Then why don't you stop?” he muttered.

Birkin blinked. “Stop what?”

“Covering.” The word had been spit out like it tasted foul.

Birkin's mouth became a thin line. “Because if I did, you'd end up like Stephen.”

Wesker should of let it go.

He didn't.

“Ha, and here I was, under the impression that you _enjoyed_ experimenting on me.”

The words hit Birkin like knife before leaving him feeling cold all the way down to his bones. That was possibly...no _definitely_ the cruelest thing Wesker had ever said to him.

William stayed silent for a few moments before smacking Wesker soundly across his wicked face.

Wesker was too shocked by such an unexpected action from his usually timid colleague to manage anything in response besides stereotypically raising his hand to his stinging cheek as he watched Birkin stiffly get up and move to the other side of the room, back to Wesker, arms folded.

“I hope you're happy, Al,” hissed William, obviously hurt.

When Wesker didn't do anything to fill the void he continued, whipping around to face him, his pale features etched in anger and pain. “What have I ever done to make you think that I would do something like that to you?! Huh?! Have I _ever_ done _anything_ to make you believe that you couldn't rely on me?! Because I sure as hell rely on _you_!” Birkin threw his hands up in the air in exasperation. “Good God, Al! If we can't trust each other who _can_ we trust?! Not Marcus and certainly not Umbrella!”

It was all Wesker could do to stare into those raging sapphire colored orbs that begged him to see reason.

“I've seen first hand what they do! They'd throw us to the dogs without so much as blinking if we _ever_ became useless to them! I don't know about you, Al, but I don't want to face that alone! I cannot, _will not_ do that!” William let out a deep shaky breath, holding his head with one hand. “Please don't make me do that...”

For a full minute Wesker couldn't make his vocal cords work. Birkin was about to give up on him and walk out in despair by the time Wesker finally spoke, the words coming out small and hoarse.

“My birthday...”

Birkin turned his eyes back on Wesker who was contemplating the scientist's rather unattractive shoes again. “What?”

“Christmas Eve.”

Birkin stared at him in confusion. “Is the all because I didn't know when your fucking birthday was? Dammit, Al! Honestly?!”

If that was the reason behind all this drama, Birkin was going to kill him...

Wesker shook his head violently before resting his pounding forehead in his hands, his elbows braced on either knee. He had _never_ told _anyone_ this. He _shouldn't_ be telling Birkin. But he had to. It was screaming inside him, ripping him apart, clawing at his mind and very sanity. Maybe...maybe if he told Birkin things would be better. Even just a little relief from this yearly torture, magnified intensely by this location and situation, would be a blessing.

“That's when Wesker killed my family and brainwashed my brother into betraying me!” It all just came gushing out, like a festering wound being lanced open, releasing all the disgusting twisted baggage he'd been carrying around for nearly eight years. “I know it happened, but I can't remember a thing! Not one goddamned thing,Will, but I feel... _everything_ like it just fucking happened! It's...it's destroying me! I can't sleep, I can't eat, I can't do my job because everything about this retched place and this horrid time of year reminds of what I can't remember; smells, sounds, tastes, _everything_! It's like the worst itch in the world that you can never scratch and it just gets worse and worse until it's practically a burning in your head! So if you're wondering why I've been a 'little off,' there you go! There's my my biggest fucking weakness!”

The room was still, stunned into silence by the burden Wesker had just thrown out into the open air.

Birkin had no idea how to respond. “Al….I...I had no idea...you...'Wesker?'”

Wesker hung his head more, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Wesker, Umbrella, same fucking difference. Seems the name is just another trade mark they like to smack onto everything they 'create.'” He laughed humorlessly. “Just another reminder of what I can't remember....”

Birkin moved forwards to try to place a hand on his friend's shoulder. “Al, you're not just some creation-”

Wesker shrugged off the offending hand. He couldn't take anymore of this; not now. His emotions were too high, rushing and straining against the self constructed dam he'd been using for years to hold them back. It was too much. So he ran from it. He didn't know how else to cope.

“I can't do this right now...” he muttered, moving towards the door.

“Al...” Birkin attempted uselessly.

Wesker just opened the door. “Besides, don't we have work to do?”

“That can wait,” insisted William. “This is much more important right now.”

Wesker shook his head. “I'm starting. Wouldn't want you to have to cover too much for me today.” He paused before jerking his head over to the book stuffed into the crack between the sofa's cushions and arm. “Back cover, underneath the binding; if you're really interested anyways.”

Not willing to explain more, Wesker disappeared into the lab, white coattails swishing behind him.

Birkin was only able to stand motionless in the middle of the room unmoving and stunned. In all the reasons he had come up with in his own head for why Wesker was acting so strangely, he had never imagined it was anything like the horror that had just been described to him. How Wesker could manage to function as well as he did was a mystery to William.

Birkin's mind traveled back to the damage that had been done to the sixteen year old's hippocampus. At that time he'd been a little too preoccupied with... other things to give it much thought. Umbrella was certainly morally capable of erasing people's memories and he wouldn't be surprised if they had found a way to actually accomplish such a chilling but fascinating feat; he had the proof right in front of him.

But if Wesker's memories were gone, and he admitted not remembering anything, how did he “know” what had transpired? Birkin gulped as he looked over at the old biochemistry book stuffed into the couch. He had no idea what he would find should he investigate further, but he couldn't stop now. It was obvious to the blond that Wesker needed help and that he was reaching the end of his rope. Birkin was the only one in the position to really do any helping. He wasn't going to fail this Wesker too.

Ignoring his trepidation, William grabbed to text book and flipped it over to back cover. It took him only a few seconds to locate the slightly turned up edge of the binding. Carefully pulling it back, Birkin gingerly removed the yellowed envelope bearing an old Umbrella insignia. One more deep breath and Birkin had removed the contents, gently opening the thin pages so that he could be the second person allowed to read the atrocities and rage filled demands spelled out in Wesker's messy handwriting.

Birkin actually had to sit down as it dawned on him that these murderous orders were put to paper by the hand of a ten year old, commanding that same child to brutally destroy Umbrella and all its members in the most torturous ways imaginable. It was sickening to read, even more so knowing that these were the first words a confused memory-less child had known and the only thing Wesker had been given to cling to after whatever terrible experiments Umbrella had preformed on him.

Suddenly his own tragic reasons for being here paled in comparison as his blue eyes finished absorbing all the pain, hatred, and malice signed by the boy named Albert Silvain.

He was about to replace the nasty thing when he noticed a tiny addendum in the upper right corner. He had to squint to make out the messy scribble. “' _You can trust Laura Muller'_...?” he quietly read in confusion.

Birkin felt a pang of jealousy shoot through him. He couldn't think of a single person Wesker would admit to fully trusting. Not even William made it on to that blank list...well, blank aside from whoever the hell “ _Laura Muller_ ” was.

Birkin shook his head, he was letting that last bit bother him much more than he should be. Right now he had much bigger concerns then some random girl little Wesker probably had had a crush on.

Replacing the secret envelope in its hiding place before setting it down on the couch, Birkin exited the room.

Wesker was working, albeit slowly, with the containment zone, transferring minute amounts of the virus into different tests tubes for processing via the large bulky gloves mounted in the glass completely separating the deadly virus from the outside world.

Birkin approached him slowly and quietly, waiting for his opportune moment. Wesker was jumpy as of late; now William knew it was for good reasons. He didn't want to startle the blond into contaminating the contained area; an event that in and of itself would take hours to clean not to mention all the days of research they'd lose.

Once Birkin was sure his actions would not have any sort of negative consequences, he moved up behind his friend, pressed his chest into his back, and wrapped his arms around his waist.

As expected, Wesker jerked but the careful timing prevented him from initiating a well contained biohazard.

“Will!” cried Wesker in a mix of annoyance and shock.

“Did you really think I'd pick Umbrella over you?” Birkin whispered sadly somewhere near Wesker's ear moments before Albert felt the soft warmth of William's lips on the back of his neck.

It was all Wesker could manage not to lean back into him. He wanted the comfort, but believed it would be showing weakness to accept it without at least a bit of a fight first.

“I thought you'd be too afraid of the repercussions to do anything. You do realize what they'll do to you if something were to go wrong and they knew you knew about it?” His words were even and betrayed none of his emotion.

Birkin paused, resting his head in the crook of Wesker's neck and shoulder. “I am scared, Al. Terrified in fact. The thought of you trying to go up against all of Umbrella...it's laughable; a joke.”

Wesker stiffened against him.

Birkin continued, his grip tightening slightly to prevent Wesker from attempting to slip away. “But you don't joke, not about things like that. Then suddenly it's anything but funny. And knowing that I'm going to follow you, help...oh I have no idea how, that chills me to the core. Just not as much as the thought of losing you.”

Wesker choked out a hollow chuckle. “Sounds like you stole that speech out of some poorly written romance novel.”

Birkin shook his head against the taller boy. “Just made it up. You like it?”

Wesker finished what he was doing and pulled his hands from the thick glove placing them over Birkin's arms. “Could use a little work.”

Birkin laughed quietly, edging a bit closer. “You really think you can do it?” he asked meekly. If he was any more scared by the prospect Wesker had just proposed he'd be shaking.

Wesker nodded. “I have to.”

Birkin knew better than to question him on that topic, even though he also knew Wesker's goal was the equivalent to suicide. It would have been easier for Wesker to put that gun he was always practicing with to his beautiful head and pull the trigger, or better yet, inject himself with the virus he'd just been handling.

“Okay,” was the only response Birkin could manage.

They just stood there like that in silence for what seemed like hours, enjoying the warmth from each other's bodies and taking comfort from the fact that neither of them was walking down this dark bleak path alone. Then simultaneously, though no words had been uttered, they separated and began to tackle the tasks Marcus and the virus had lain out for them.

* * *

 _December 23rd_ _, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility_

While it was true that Wesker had slightly improved after Birkin had basically sworn loyalty to him and his insane cause, he was far from great. If today was anything to judge by, tomorrow would be hell for his colleague... There would be no mercy. Here at Umbrella's top secret Research and Training Facility, it was a miracle they got off Christmas.

Birkin gulped as he stared at the imposing white door. It looked exactly identical to almost, if not all the other doors in this veritable underground city, but behind this one lay Doctor Marcus and his private labs. Birkin was shaking, his palms were sweaty, and he was quite sure anything that came out of his mouth would be a stutter.

Birkin mentally cursed. The things he did for Wesker...

Mustering every ounce of bravery in his slight frame, he knocked on the door. Sure the knock was rather meek, but at least he'd done it. He didn't even run when Marcus angrily barked at him to, “Go away!”

“S-sir,” stammered William. “I-it's me, D-doctor Birkin...I um...can I p-please talk w-with you about something?”

Marcus grumbled for a while before he opened the door to glare at William—at least he'd cut off that mop of gray hair, but even without it he still looked intimidating.

“What?” he hissed angrily. “Is there a problem at the lab?”

Birkin barely managed not to squeak. He'd much rather deal with a furious Wesker _any_ day; a choice hardly anyone else would make.

“N-n-no,” he gulped. “B-but I-I had a q-question...”

Marcus glared. “Spit it out, Birkin, I haven't got all night!”

Birkin cringed before just letting his request gush out in a rush. “I was wondering if you'd let us switch the days we had off; Christmas Eve for Christmas!”

Marcus paused, eyebrows knitting together.

“T-think about it,” continued William a little less rushed. “You have everyone off on Christmas so nothing will get done, but if we switch the days at least they'll both be semi-productive.”

Marcus glowered. “If you and Wesker are so eager to get things done then why don't you just work _both_ days.”

Birkin winced. From what he'd heard, Dr. Marcus has fought tooth and nail for _no_ holidays. “Um...w-well, you s-see...um...”

Marcus just shooed him away. “Fine! Take whichever damn day off you want, just quit wasting my time with it.”

The door was slammed in Birkin's face who gladly scampered as quickly as he could back to his room. By the time he got there is heart was still racing within his chest but the fear was quickly being replaced by a huge sense of accomplishment; he'd bartered with Marcus and gotten Wesker tomorrow off! At the moment, as silly as it was, this seemed like his biggest achievement.

Riding high on the wings of success, Birkin opened the door, his mood only slightly brought down by the gloomy atmosphere saturating this place courtesy of Albert Wesker.

Usually, since they'd just gotten out of the lab, Wesker would still be working out in the gym, but as with all other aspects of his life, he'd lost the motivation to continue doing so during this month. This resulted in him already being in bed, trying his hardest to lock out the world, his pain, and a splitting headache.

Moving carefully across the floor—a process that was only made hazardous by his own messy habits—Birkin approached Wesker's bed. He hesitated for only a moment before slipping in between his colleague's sheets.

Wesker yelped at the sudden very unexpected invasion of his bed—something Birkin had never done before. “Will, what are you—mmph...!”

Birkin's feelings of grandeur only grew as he was able to shut Wesker up so quickly and effectively with a rough kiss to his hot mouth.

“I got you tomorrow off,” William whispered as they separated, stroking his hair.

Wesker blinked, trying to make his pounding head make sense of Birkin's words. “What? ...how did you...?” He was trying to push Birkin back but to no avail.

Birkin shuddered. “It wasn't easy. We have to work Christmas...”

Wesker looked away as the mention of that word made his chest ache for reasons he didn't completely understand. He snorted. “Like I give a damn.”

Birkin softened when he saw Wesker's poorly hidden reaction. “I'm going to stay here tonight.”

Wesker gritted his teeth. “That so?”

Birkin nodded. “And all day tomorrow.”

Wesker swallowed as Birkin ran a hand over his chest and stomach. “And what if I said I didn't want you to?”

Birkin smiled and wrapped his arms comfortingly around him. “I wouldn't believe you for a second,” he whispered moving closer to prevent the likelihood of slipping out of the twin sized bed.

Wesker winced as Birkin's belt dug into his side, but he gave in. As unexpected as this all was it was...nice. Birkin's gentle scent surrounding him, his long timid fingers stroking his hair, chest rising and falling against his own; it _almost_ felt safe, and it definitely was distracting him from his inner hell.

“Fine, but if you're staying you're going to have to take your work clothes off,” he grumbled.

Birkin's smiled broadened. “I can do that...”

If Wesker wasn't feeling so damned bad he would have rolled his eyes. “That is _not_ what I meant, Will.”

The man was already stripping.

Wesker watched languidly as Birkin began to remove his clothing, tossing it all heedlessly on the already messy floor; first his lab coat, thrown over a nearby chair, then his shirt, the pale flesh of his chest showing up wonderfully in the dim light.

Birkin was halfway through hopping out of his jeans when he noticed Wesker's rather piercing gaze. Suddenly he paused in his movements despite the awkward position and blushed, looking away. “Al...do you have to stare like that? ...It's embarrassing.”

Wesker just continued to watch in response, his usually cold eyes felt like hot spotlights boring into Birkin's flesh. It probably didn't help that Birkin was naturally a self conscious person especially, now that he'd finally taken time to consider it, about his appearance, which, when compared to the physical perfection that was Wesker, his gangly slight form and sharp features wasn't really much to look at.

Birkin's color deepened even more before he almost violently yanked down his trousers and boxers and hurriedly re-hid himself under the sheets to get away from the practical model scrutinizing him.

Wesker chuckled hollowly, propping his head up on his elbow so he could better regard the blond next to him. “Honestly, Will, you have nothing to be flustered about. I wouldn't stare if I didn't enjoy it.”

Birkin's blush slowly dissipated. Wesker certainly had a very peculiar way of being “sweet,” a strange tendency that miraculously still showed through despite him being so emotionally off. Birkin quickly reminded himself why he was here in Wesker's bed. Birkin's goal had been to distract his friend by any means necessary from the hell inside his head, and hopefully offer the man he cared so deeply for some measure of comfort for the ache Wesker had been carrying around in his chest all month.

Back on task and no longer focused on his own insecurities, William again wrapped his arms around Wesker's stiff body. He loved the heat radiating from Wesker's form that he could only feel pressed this close, skin to skin to the man he'd been sleeping with for the past two months now.

Wesker at first tried resisting relaxing into Birkin, but eventually, after putting up enough of a fight to maintain his sense of pride, he allowed his body to essentially meld into the man lying next to him.

It always surprised him how easily this happened, especially since Birkin was quite gangly—all knees and elbows. But Birkin and him just seemed to fit, as odd and stupidly romantic as that sounded.

They complemented each other perfectly, like two pieces of the same twisted puzzle; Cold strength defending fearful timidness; Calm rationality controlling fiery rage.... The list could go on but Wesker felt silly dwelling on such things, even more so when it would involve him admitting to “needing” someone else.

Wesker was finding it hard to resist Birkin and the gentle kisses he was tracking up the sensitive curve of Wesker's neck ending at the older blond's ear which William began to lovingly abuse. “I'm here for you,” Birkin murmured in Wesker's ear, his hot breath ghosting over the tender flesh.  
“Whatever you need.” Another kiss. “Anything at all.” And again. “Just say the word, Al.”

Wesker couldn't fully contain the quiet moan that had been building in his throat since Birkin had started his very arousing ministrations and which was released by William's wonderful decoration.

Wesker gave in and wrapped his arms around Birkin, pulling the man impossibly close. He wanted this, he always had. It wasn't the thrill of sex per say—though that was a tantalizing aspect to their situation—but Wesker was desperate for this feeling of closeness; for this confirmation that he wasn't alone and that he would always have someone to turn to when things got unbearable. It made him feel “loved,” that thing he didn't believe...rather _wasn't sure_ existed.

Regardless of his willingness to use certain nomenclature for the term, this was something he'd been searching for since Umbrella had stolen everything good in his life away from him and left him alone in the dark with only words of hatred, hurt, and vengeance to guide him.

Admitting to such things was something he would never do and would never dare ask for due to the fear of the catastrophic results should such a request be formally denied. It made him feel exceedingly weak and broken and he loathed it with every fiber of his being. As such, he would never ever tell Birkin any of it. How could he?

Wesker let all of his heated emotions and desperate needs pour out, manifesting themselves in a violent kiss instead of words, silently trying to communicate everything pounding through his throbbing head with his lips without uttering a single word.

The intense kiss left them both gasping for breath for brief moments that were never enough to fill their burning lungs before even stronger forces crashed them together again.

Wesker always wanted more.

Wesker's controlled but desperate hands pulled, tugged, stroked and clutched at Birkin's body leaving angry red trails in their wake as his mouth milked out beautiful sometimes muffles cries from the man beneath him reciprocating each of his actions. Wesker sucked, kissed, and bit the pale flesh beneath him incessantly, unable to stop himself at this point even if he had wanted to. He certainly didn't.

Birkin was happy just riding the waves of pleasure Wesker was causing to flow sporadically through him with each of his touches. The man atop him, wanting him, _needing_ him fascinated Birkin beyond all else.

Wesker was a cryptic puzzle, ever shifting, ever changing right before Birkin's transfixed eyes. He was constantly bringing some new mask, visage, or putting up an equally clever defense to hide all the tantalizing mysteries making up his true being underneath. Every time Birkin thought he had Wesker figured out, some new truth was revealed or believable lie told that completely threw him off track and forced Birkin to rethink his entire approach. It was the best game he'd ever played.

Albert Wesker was the most fascinating experiment that Birkin had ever attempted, each new test and result leaving him begging for more. Birkin knew he could study Wesker his entire life and still never fully understand him, but that continued mystery was part of what made the experiment so spell binding to the blond gasping and moaning under Wesker's expert influences.

Wesker was Birkin's life work, a marvelous creation that put Marcus's foolish leeches to shame. Wesker would take up Birkin's thoughts until the day he died, and he was fine with that, fine with never completely knowing and always wanting more.

Such undeniable facts seemed greatly contradicted by Birkin's latest actions. As Wesker had been reaching down to address their swollen, weeping cocks Birkin stopped him. “No,” William gasped completely flooring the man atop him. He swallowed hard. “No...I-I want you to take me,” panted Birkin. He could tell that his strained words were still confusing the lust filled creature above him. “I...” He took a deep breath, locking eyes with Wesker. “I want you inside of me.”

Wesker suddenly comprehended the unexpected request. Not one week after they had first came in each other's hands on the exam room floor, Birkin's curious scientific mind had gotten the better of him. Wesker had been shocked to find him “researching” methods of homosexual intercourse. It had taken them a full week to even locate such a thing let alone find a way to have it delivered to the lab without falling under scrutiny. But despite them both having read the “article,” Wesker's participation shocking Birkin greatly, and having understood the general processes involved in the various endeavors, neither of them had strayed from their original method.

Wesker was surprised, intrigued, and a little unsure about Birkin's latest request. He hated not being completely confident in his own actions or in how to proceed. Then again, how hard could it really be? It shouldn't be that big a deal that they didn't posses the “required” lubrication, they could just use spit.

It was this fact more than anything else that would leave poor Birkin limping through Christmas.

Wesker nodded placing another bite sealed kiss on Birkin's already abused lips. “If that's what you want, Dearheart.”

Birkin shivered, both out of anticipation and due to the pet name Wesker had recently taken to calling him.

There was a pause before Wesker pulled back. “You should...roll over now, correct?” Wesker inquired with a cock of his head.

Birkin shook his in response. “I'd...rather stay facing you...”

Wesker inwardly grumbled at how awkward this was starting to become as he revised his strategy to successfully complete Birkin's newest experiment. “I don't think you're that flexible,” Wesker commented nonchalantly as he slowly pushed Birkin's knees upwards and out, fully exposing his partner's hard, throbbing manhood. The sight increased the demand his own unattended to member was sending to his foggy brain.

Birkin almost glared but couldn't quite force the look on to his face. “Al, please...just...just do it,” he murmured in a tone close enough to begging to bring Wesker back to the task at hand rather than thinking of excuses not to proceed.

Wesker stroked Birkin's lips with a single finger before pressing it into the man's moist mouth. “Suck,” he commanded, an order Birkin rapidly complied to, letting the finger move steadily back and forth between his lips in a very foreshadowing manner, gently caressing the digit with his velvety tongue. The sucking was driving Wesker a little crazy but he managed to resist the urge to palm himself until Birkin was done completely covering each of his fingers in a slippery coating of saliva, the last finger leaving Birkin's mouth with a small popping sound.

Wesker moved in between Birkin's knees, a press of his still dry hand indicating his soon to be victim to raise his hips slightly off the bed. Now came the tricky part. Reading about this and doing it were two completely different scenarios. Honestly, sticking anything up anybody's rectum, no matter how close they were, seemed more than a little disgusting to the neat freak keeping William completely at his mercy.

“A-Al!”

If Birkin hadn't just moaned his name so plaintively, Wesker just might have left to find gloves and a condom. As it was though, all the natural chemicals and hormones coursing through Wesker's body and mind allowed him to ignore his usual tendencies and stick the first of his slick fingers deep into Birkin's tight cavity, advancing the digit more quickly then he probably should have.

Birkin's suddenly let out a sharp hiss of pain, his body tightening around the foreign object and his face contorting in a look of severe discomfort. “Ah! God, Al! Oh...oh fuck that hurts!”

“I thought this is what you wanted, Will,” Wesker cooed as he advanced the finger deeper causing more wonderful cries of pain to erupt for the younger boy's blood tinged lips. Wesker was loving this already.

“Ah! Al! Yes but I didn't-Uhhh...!”

Suddenly the entire nature of Birkin's cries changed, shifting from pain to extreme pleasure as he saw stars and jerked underneath Wesker. Birkin's gasps of what seemed to be ecstasy when Wesker's finger unwittingly pushed up against that specific bundle of nerves associated with Birkin's prostate surprised Wesker just as much as they had the man making them. Birkin hadn't even really been aware that such a spot had existed inside of him, but he was certainly thrilled about the discovery.

“Oh! ...Oh God, Al! Nnhh!” gasped Birkin, his body reacting, instinctively pressing towards the amazing stimulus.

Urged on by beautiful sounds that were a mixture of sharp breaths of pain and long moans of ecstasy frequently erupting from the throat of the man beneath him, Wesker eagerly added another finger into the tight warm cavity and began the task of stretching the entry. He made sure to address his partner's magical spot frequently in order to keep Birkin fluctuating chaotically between the two opposing sensations. Wesker was loving every second of the wonderful torture he was inflicting. By the sound of things, so was Birkin.

“Ahha! Ahh...Gha! Mmn... Oh! A-Al! Haaa! P-please! Fuck me-nnh-already! Ahh!” cried Birkin through the chorus of sweet noises.

Wesker needed no more prompting. Finally removing the three digits he'd manage to fit into Birkin's tight space, Wesker lined his throbbing member up and, without any sort of warning, roughly shoved it deeply inside William's body.

The boy screamed, but Wesker was beyond caring. The intense pleasure already coursing through his body was enough that nothing else could even reach him at this point. The tight heat surrounding and tightening around his aching cock was infinitely more than anything he had ever experienced in this arena before.

Whereas before Wesker had been _slightly_ concerned with the careless volume Birkin had been using during their previous actions, he found that such things were no longer of any import, his own uncensored cries joining Birkin's in the air. All that mattered was that he continued to thrust himself deeply and repeatedly into the tight heat underneath him and that the impossibly addicting pressure within him continued to build to breathtaking levels. Everything else was blotted out in a blinding white hot light of blissful oblivion.

It was doubtful that their neighbors would ever look at the couple living in apartment B6-13 in the same light again.

It wasn't only the possible repercussions that could come from their relationship being discovered that were wiped from Wesker's mind, it was _everything_. All the anger, hurt, stress, insecurities, and uncertainties that usually plagued his scarred mind especially during this season were gone. Losing himself like this was the greatest relief he had experienced since his past had started haunting him relentlessly this December. It was like a godsent he didn't even yet know he was receiving.

It would be this revelation that would later lead Wesker to repeatedly use sex as a method of escape from all the hell that characteristically filled his existence. What most would consider an effect of uncontrolled hormones would actually only be Wesker's drug of choice; his version of the brief relief gleaned from drinking oneself into oblivion. Instead of using this closeness as an act of love, certain events in his life would lead him to use intercourse as a poorly fitting, quickly disintegrating Band-Aid for the hole in his life he would refuse to fill.

Like all highs, physical or emotional, this wonderful break from reality too came crashing to an end. Wesker's body released the white hot pressure that had blotted out all else inside of Birkin who Wesker hadn't even realized had wrapped his arms around the panting beast pinning him to the bed and held him close during the final frantic moments of their joining.

Wesker waited the few extra moments required for Birkin to reach release, the white spots returning as Wesker felt Birkin's body tighten around him as he sent his hot semen over Wesker's chest and stomach.

They just breathed, short desperate inhalations of the cool oxygen attempting to quench the need in their burning lungs.

Once the world and reality came back into startling clear focus, Wesker removed himself from the man whose limbs he was still tangled in. After he had come to rest next to his panting colleague he felt all the cold he had temporally escaped come creeping back along with his pounding headache he had recently forgotten about.

December was truly an awful thing.

Wesker pressed himself tightly to the man next to him, hoping to keep reality at bay for a little longer. “Thank you,” he whispered into Birkin's sweat soaked hair which was quite a bit more disheveled than usual.

Despite its brevity, this had truly been the best gift anyone had given him in this hellish month.

Birkin adjusted his form until he fully complemented Wesker's slick body. “Whenever, however you need me.”

Still riding the last fleeting gusts of his attempt at escape, Wesker allowed the dark curtains of sleep to overtake him, wanting nothing more than to sleep though the entire day that was his birthday, Christmas Eve, and the moment Umbrella had forever altered the course of his life.

Birkin's arms could never be strong enough to lock all that out, but it was better than nothing.

* * *

_December 24th, 1977; Arklay Mountain Research and Training Facility:_

It was the twenty fourth of December, Christmas Eve, Wesker's birthday, and the anniversary of the worst day of his life. He should have been miserable, stuck in the heart of the facility owned by the organization responsible for everything that made this day a living hell, and he was but...it wasn't as bad as he had imagined it would be. For the first time on this retched eve, he wasn't alone. Even his nightmares hadn't been so bad with Birkin's thin arms wrapped around him. He'd actually been able to sleep, _really_ sleep all night and remain so until well after ten in the morning instead of what he usually did: Staring up into the blackness, hopelessly ruminating over every horrible detail he could never fully understand and stewing over the bleakness of the whole situation.

Laying here now, his back pressed up against Birkin's chest and stomach, he was still suffering from a splitting headache and felt like the entire weight of his dark past and most likely dismal future were crushing down on his chest, but it was bearable. As long as no Christmas music came on, he was fairly certain he could cope for the thirteen hours and twenty one minutes that remained before Christmas Eve was over.

Wesker sighed heavily against Birkin in an effort to release some of the pain trapped inside him, alerting his companion to the fact that he was no longer sleeping.

Birkin momentarily stopped his gentle slow rubbing of Wesker's available shoulder and arm to prop himself on his elbow and arch his head around and glance at Wesker's face. He ignored the throb of pain deep inside of him that became slightly more aggravated at the small movement; Wesker certainly hadn't been easy on him the prior evening

The now seventeen year old's delicate blond brows were knitted together in a way that suggested he was anything but peaceful at the moment.

“You up, Al?” whispered Birkin gently.

“Mmm,” was all Wesker was willing to say, his eyes still tightly shut in order to block out any light that might increase the pain in his temples. It was an unnecessary gesture as the room was basically pitch black.

Birkin smiled before softly kissing Wesker's shoulder that had become exposed by Birkin's own recent movements. “Happy birthday, Al...”

Wesker winced. “Hardly...” His birthdays had never been happy.

Birkin fell silent before pressing his forehead to Wesker's back. “Well, despite your justified horrible mood, I'm happy you were born.”

Wesker snorted. “...you should write soap operas...” he mumbled.

“I'm better with chemical structures,” Birkin informed him in a low voice.

Wesker just made some sort of inaudible response.

After a long pause, Birkin began doing just that, writing out molecular diagrams on Wesker's long back with his delicate fingers.

Wesker frowned when he realized there was a pattern to Birkin's light touches across his back. _Alternating_ _deoxyribose and_ _phosphate_ _bases, hydrogen bonds between protein bases labeled A, G, T, and C..._ He chuckled when he realized what Birkin was illustrating on his smooth skin.

“Why are you drawing a DNA double helix on my back?”

“Because I was board...” murmured William with a smile before he started on a new drawing.

“RNA transcriptase,” decided Wesker after a few minutes. “Do something harder.”

As a joke, Birkin drew out the molecular structure of the hormone testosterone, which had them both chuckling like the teenagers they truly were for several minutes.

Before the mild fits of mirth had fully died down, Birkin began his next challenge that was arguably considerably less complex then his previous drawings.

“I'm sorry, Will,” chuckled the older blond, “I missed that.”

Birkin nodded retracing it over Wesker's spine. “Uroboros.”

Wesker frowned. “Don't you mean the Benzene Ring?”

“Same thing.” He was now tracing meaningless little circlets down his spine.

“I suppose,” shrugged Wesker.

“The snake that eats it's own tail...” Birkin trailed off. “Do you ever feel like that.”

“Like I'm destroying myself?”

“No I...” Birkin paused. “I didn't mean it like that. It's supposed to represent cycles. One part of your life ending completely before you start all over again in some new chapter.”

Wesker shook his head. “Will, if the snake eats all the way up to its own head,which is technically impossible, all you get is self inflicted death, no new beginning.”

Birkin frowned. “Are you always so cynical?”

“You're asking me this today?” There was some humor in his words so Birkin knew he hadn't strayed too far off the path into unmentionable territory but he also knew he was getting close.

“Sorry.”

Wesker sighed. “You know that horrible motto Marcus has engraved into that distasteful Umbrella plaque?”

Birkin rolled his eyes before reciting it in a proper school boy manner with caused Wesker to smirk. “Obedience breeds discipline, discipline breeds unity, unity breeds power, power is life.”

“Yes, but I was only talking about the last bit. They are right you know, power _is_ life and the only thing that can defeat power is more power. That is the one constant in this universe. However, there is no point in power if it consumes itself.”

Birkin's movements had stopped on this partner's back as he listened.

“That's all your little cannibalistic snake is, a perfect representation of uncontrolled power that consumes itself. The only cycle of Uroboros is death. There is no such thing as rebirth. You only get one chance at life, and I don't intend to waste mine.”

It was interesting how once Wesker would reach his own head; after the course of his life would devour its own tail and the entirety of its form, how his views on the creature known as Uroboros would change so drastically. Wesker, the man who had never believed in rebirth would die and breath again many times before the cycles truly ended.

Birkin felt sobered by Wesker's grim words, speaking of death and self destruction. He was determined to keep his friend from such a fate even if was the last thing he was able to do with the short time he'd been given on this earth.

“Al,” he started slowly.

“Hm?”

Birkin couldn't bring himself to say it, so he dismissed the opportunity, instead opting to change the subject. “When I take up writing my romance novels, you should start your dark poetry.”

Wesker laughed. “You think so, eh?”

Birkin smiled, glad things had become lighter once more. “Yes, either that or philosophy.”

Wesker scoffed. “Hardly. Have you ever tried talking to them? All those existential crazed idiots inevitably end each of their arguments with questioning the opposing side's existence or reality in its entirety. I can't stand any of them.”

Birkin broke out laughing against Wesker's neck. “You've summed up their position, or lack there of perfectly.”

Wesker smirked and Birkin went back to the game Uroboros had interrupted, unknowing of how that vicious cyclic snake would never truly set Wesker free from its ever constricting and shrinking coils.

This quiet talking and tracing of various increasingly complex chemical structures that would sometimes take up Wesker's entire back or even have to extend to his side and chest distracted Albert from his strange affliction for the majority of the day. Honestly, when Wesker would look back on this moment he would feel almost humiliated with embarrassment, but right now this time with William Birkin, however brief it would be in the end, was Wesker's salvation and he loved Birkin for it.      

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm very glad I decided to do this chapter. I was originally thinking of skipping over it and going straight to the discovery of T and the move to the mansion facility (not in that order). I'm glad I didn't because I'm very pleased with the results. I didn't want to over do it and make Wesker out to seem weak, but he is human (whether he likes it or not) and something that traumatizing doesn't just disappear. I hope the balance I was looking for was attained and that you enjoyed reading this update.
> 
> Until next time,
> 
> -Asiera


	10. PG08A/W: Tyrant Unleashed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesker and Birkin are transferred to the Umbrella facility hidden deep underneath Lord Spencer's Mansion where all kinds of atrocities are lurking, primarily the abomination and first recorded human test subject: Lisa Trevor. 
> 
> The two are named Chiefs of Research at the mansion facility and tasked with running any and all experiments on the monstrous Lisa as well as assisting Dr. Marcus with his research on his disgusting leeches.
> 
> It takes several years of horrific research and a few near brushes with death, but eventually, on September 19th, 1978 something terribly miraculous happens: A "dead" test subject reanimates.

 

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG08A/W: Tyrant Unleashed**

_July 29th_ _, 1978; Arklay Mountains, just outside the Spencer Mansion grounds:_

Wesker sighed as he looked out the window at the rapidly passing rich green forest scenery sprawled out beneath them. Currently he was riding with his partner in the back seat of one of the company's helicopters, transporting Birkin and himself to a new facility situated even higher up in the Arklay mountains.

About a month and a half ago the order had been issued that Umbrella was shutting down the Arklay Research and Training Facility and transferring most of the Research Division to the labs built beneath the Spencer Mansion. This mansion, as it was accurately referred to, was a veritable maze of twisting halls, secret rooms, hidden passages, and nearly unsolvable puzzles whose completion was a necessity to navigating the Victorian designed estate should the security system be activated.

Umbrella never gave a reason for the sudden closure—at least not one Wesker was important enough to hear about. They were just told to relocate themselves and the entirety of their research to the labyrinth of labs buried deep beneath the building that looked as though it had been transported from eighteenth century Europe to the heart of the Arklay Forest.

Wesker had never actually seen the mansion that had been designed by the famous eccentric of an architect George Trevor. Rumor had it that he'd gone crazy shortly after finishing the project and died wondering the halls, lost in his own ever shifting puzzle. The was, of course, a lie. While it was true that Trevor had disappeared along with his entire family once the project was completed, Wesker just assumed he'd taken the ridiculous amount of money paid to him for the job and ran off to some foreign country to live out the rest of his days in luxury. Then again...Spencer and Umbrella as a whole were exceedingly suspicious. If George Trevor knew the secret of what lurked beneath the foundations of his masterpiece, there was no doubt he was dead.

Wesker still wasn't sure how he felt about the transfer. The process itself was extremely annoying and had caused them to lose entire weeks of productivity; a trend Wesker was sure would continue for at least two more as they re-setup in the new lab. But on the plus side of things, he and Birkin had been promoted to the position of Chief Researchers. That was something at least.

Wesker stiffened as the chopper began to descend and he saw the first glimpses of white washed walls, intricate window panes, and marble pillars reminiscent of ancient Greece though the thinning lines of trees. Most would have gasped at the beauty of the majestic building, but Wesker only shivered. Yes, it was true that he was rather impressed by the sheer majesty of the structure, but the knowledge of the secrets contained within the twisted halls turned beauty into a skillfully crafted veneer of wickedness. Wesker's dark perspective turned the grand building into a haunted structure, much like those seen at the start of many of the most famous horror movies.

Wesker elbowed Birkin harder than the reading recipient of the blow would have preferred, causing him to jerk in his seat and almost drop the research report on the Ebola virus he'd been handed moments before their departure. Apparently it was something they could add to the lists of deadly viruses they were already handling.

"W-Wha...?" William stuttered confusedly as he tried to get his bearings, a hand rubbing at his now smarting side. Birkin had the tendency to lose himself while reading. Wesker wouldn't be surprised if he'd momentarily forgotten they'd been traveling by chopper for the last twenty minutes.

"We're here," Wesker informed him in a monotone as the helicopter landed in the drive just past the gigantic silver gates keeping the rest of the world safe from the horrors lurking beneath the brick and mortar sentinel.

Birkin's eyes widened as he stared over Wesker out the window, practically pushing the older blond out of the way to get a better look, his hands digging painfully into Wesker's thighs. "It's...it's  _huge_!"

Wesker growled and pushed him back. "Honestly Will, it's just a mansion," grumbled Wesker in annoyance.

"A mansion we're going to  _live_  in, Al!" gushed Birkin. "Why aren't you more excited?"

Wesker paused for a moment. "I don't know...it just doesn't seem that impressive. Perhaps I've lived in larger ones," he mused in a joking fashion as the blades above them began to slow.

Birkin giggled. "I can see that. Maybe you were a prince."

Wesker only resisted the strong urge he had to smack William upside the head because he saw the president of the facility waiting for them. He clad in a crisp black suite, standing patiently at the top of the stone steps leading up to the very impressive oak doors, ready to show them inside. That was something Wesker was grateful for. While he and Birkin had been briefed on the mansion's basic layout, all the secret passages and strangely operated doors would be hell to figure out on their own. This could have been avoided had they landed on the Facility's heliport which had direct elevator access to the labs.

Though Wesker would have preferred the above method, it seemed they were getting the tour.

As Wesker stepped out of the chopper, he took in the rich forest smell kicked up by wind from the rotating blades. It was a dark woody smell not unlike the atmosphere surrounding the Research and Training Facility. But the air was thinner and colder up here and contained an undertone of mystery, as though the very wind was whispering almost audible deadly secrets. Wesker took in all of this, his feet crunching over the gravel drive as he made his way over to the rather foreboding entrance. He felt dwarfed by the giant structure, a fact that was not helped by the dark shadow cast from the stone behemoth he now stood in.

Wesker heard the sliding door on the side of the chopper close followed by Birkin's hurried footsteps as he joined his colleague in approaching their awaiting escort. The man who stood before them was tall and gaunt, getting into his older years by the look of his salt and pepper hair, with a face and a name Wesker wouldn't even bother to remember. He and Birkin had been named Chief Researchers of this location meaning that the facility was theirs to control. The only man they would still have to answer to was Doctor Marcus who was still head of the Progenitor Project and had made the transfer with them. Their mentor was to meet them down in the labs, meaning the sooner they got this tour over the better. Dr. Marcus could not be considered a patient man.

"Allow me to welcome you to Lord Spencer's Mansion. This way please," the elder man greeted, ushering them into the mansion. "The assistants will get your luggage."

It wasn't out of any sort of spite, but both Wesker and Birkin mostly ignored the man, Birkin because he was trying to do a mix of gawk at their grand surroundings and read his report, and Wesker because the man wasn't of any import.

The facility's president didn't comment, though their complete lack of manners, courtesy of Umbrella's upbringing, usually offend most individuals within the first five seconds of meeting them. Their guide knew better, he'd been informed by both Dr. Marcus and Lord Spencer himself that these two were important to the larger scheme of things and, therefore to let them do as they pleased. As such he merely followed the young men through the double doors and into the breathtaking marble and wooden entrance hall.

The room was enormous, making all who entered feel small and insignificant in comparison to yet another of Umbrella's marvels. Wesker could see doors leading off to the east and west wings as well as a multitude of doorways off the upper landing reached by the grand staircase. The white swirled with black stone steps stretching out before them were covered by an intricately embroidered carpet that extended over the foyer to the doors they had just stepped through. Shining white marble made up the structure of the foyer and was accented by the deep red of a mahogany wood that practically glowed in the light of the rustic chandelier and Gothic candelabras. The room looked fit to be the entrance to a king's castle, the only things missing being stained glass and an imposing throne. Whoever had designed the building had a serious obsession with the grandiose and intimidating. One could practically feel the essence of the head of the corporation seeping through the walls.

Wesker actually had to grab Birkin's sleeve to keep him from being left behind as his wide eyes took in the vast amount of richness surrounding him when he should have been following Wesker and their now silent guide around the grand staircase and through a gate-like door at the back leading down into what Wesker presumed to be the basement. Both sides of the golden gate displayed a large Umbrella insignia made up of stone and metal, each fitted perfectly into the gate's frame.

Once they had traversed down the narrow stone steps, the décor shifted rather violently from the luxurious entrance hall to that of a dimly lit, slightly damp, stone passage that could probably more adequately be described as a cave. Wesker had to seriously wonder about the sanity of the man who had designed this place when their path took them down a metal ladder and over a large square platform that seemed to rise up from the veritable abyss surrounding them.

Wesker had never viewed himself to be scared of heights, but even he didn't want to get close to the edge of their little walkway which was shrouded in darkness, dropping off to unknown, possibly unimaginable depths. Wesker shivered slightly at the icy draft wafting up from the black precipice surrounding them. It figured that Umbrella had a pit reaching down into the darkest reaches of the earth underneath their misleading mansion.

If he had been religious—which he certainly wasn't—he probably would have compared the disconcerting drop off to something much more sinister. The oddly shaped huge stones set at each corner of the room attached by heavy metal chains to what could only be a giant sarcophagus at its center certainly didn't help his outlook on the chamber. It was a sentiment Birkin seemed to share as he eagerly followed the other two into an elevator located at the end of another small tunnel.

A few moments later, the three riders were deposited in what looked like a large outdoor courtyard whose near entirety was taken up by a large fountain bordering on being called a shallow pond. The mirror-like surface of the absolutely still water perfectly reflected the semi-cloudy July sky above. The edges of the pond were guarded by two rather grand looking statues. One of a wolf and the other of an eagle stationed at opposite ends of the fountain.

Their guide requested a few moments so that he could "open the door" before he walked around to a matching emblem underneath the permanently howling canine and gave it a sound kick.

Wesker was certainly perplexed by his actions. The fountain and its decorations looked exceedingly expensive; not something one should go around kicking. This curiosity turned into shock as the surface of the water was quite no longer. With a loud rushing sound the fountain was violently and quickly drained and the base of the structure began shifting and opening to reveal another underground passage, this one leading to the real reason they were here: The labs resting beneath Spencer's gaudy mansion.

Even Wesker had to stare at this latest addition to their journey for a few minutes. Who would hide the entrance to the labs underneath a bloody fountain? Someone clinically insane, highly eccentric or perhaps both. Wesker was now equally very intrigued and extremely put off by the man under complete control of Umbrella and therefore, his own existence: Ozwell E. Spencer.

Wesker was pulled away from just how impossibly ridiculous what he'd just seen was by his mentor's appearance, the man stepping out of the opening a few minutes after it appeared. He looked much more put together than the last time he and Birkin had seen him. He was wearing a very old but still decent suite under his lab coat and, thankfully, his gray hair was still cropped closely to his head. Perhaps this transfer would do them all good.

"The entrance to our labs," he huffed, forgoing introduction. "I'd prefer they stay open all the time—makes things much less damp—but you know how Umbrella and  _Lord_  Spencer are with their secrets."

The man who'd been guiding them took this opportunity to give his only real piece of information thus far. "The layout is a little tricky at times."

Dr. Marcus glared at the interruption but allowed him to continue.

"To get into the labs from the surface, simply press in the wolf medallion which is programed to be dislodged once the elevator goes down." He gestured at the emblem he'd kicked a few minutes ago. "Getting back out isn't near as complicated. The draining and opening of this fountain are triggered as soon as the elevator is manually commanded to go from any of the lab's lower basement levels back to level B1—the floor you are about to enter."

Dr. Marcus sighed again, this necessary explanation obviously boring him.

The president of the facility hurried to finish his instructions. "You can also get to the fountain courtyard via the inner gardens which can be accessed by transversing the entirety of the mansion's east wing."

Wesker had a feeling he'd much prefer that method over the quicker but chilling rout that took him across the cold cavern. Unfortunately, the entrance located by the helipad could only be accessed from the air.

"Well come on," huffed the annoyed looking Dr. Marcus. "We've wasted enough time already."

The two younger doctors nodded and soon they were leaving their guide behind, their path taking them down the damp stone steps and through the somewhat ill kept stone passageway to another small elevator that would finally lead them to their new labs.

If Wesker had thought the equipment in the Research and Training Facility had been out of this world, than the vast array of impossibly wonderful devices lining the walls of the rooms within this four level laboratory could be described as beyond the scope of this galaxy. What other "miracles" did Umbrella have up their sleeves?

"You two will be working in the main laboratory alongside me in level B4, but don't hesitate to utilize any of the other rooms on B3 as I'm sure they will all become invaluable to you at one point or another," drawled Dr. Marcus boredly as he took the pair though the huge area dubbed as the Main Laboratory which took up almost the entirety of the fourth basement level.

Wesker and Birkin both stopped in their tracks.

"You want us to work...alongside you?" Birkin asked in pure shock. Marcus was one of the most secretive paranoid people Birkin knew, even more so than Wesker. He shared his private research—whatever that was—with  _no one_ , absolutely  _no one_. To have him nonchalantly offer up access to all his secrets like that...it was...unheard of.

Marcus stopped, raising a gray brow incredulously at them. "What is it, Doctor Birkin? Not feeling up the the challenge?"

"N-no, Sir! Th-that's not...I didn't mean-"

Wesker cut off his stuttering friend. "Of course not, Sir. We're just...surprised, pleasantly so I might add. May we inquire as to the reason behind this sudden honor?"

Wesker had always been better with words than Birkin.

Birkin sent him a thankful glance which caused the older blond so smirk ever so slightly.

"Well after working so flawlessly under my orders for just over a year, I believe it's time I took a little more advantage of your combined talents." He waved a wrinkled hand dismissively as he continued through the lab. "Besides, my research is reaching a critical stage. I'm going to need some extra hands."

 _Ah, so it was out of necessity, not any sort of real trust...that makes much more sense_ , mused Wesker.

"So your research," ventured Birkin cautiously. "It has to do with the leeches right?"

Marcus stiffened and Wesker almost cuffed Birkin on the head. This wasn't a topic they should just rush into. The man wasn't any less paranoid. He needed to bring the information to them rather then feel like they were prying for it like the eager little thieves they truly were.

"All in good time." Dr. Marcus responded in even but firm tones. "Right now there is someone I'd like you to Lisa does get so lonely down here after all..."

Wesker shot Birkin a suspicious glance. He had picked up on the strange sadistic glee in the doctor's voice that most would have found imperceptible and it made him shiver. He very much doubted the Lisa would be a fellow lab worker.

Birkin gave a slight nod of understanding signaling that he hadn't missed the inflection either. Not surprising. You couldn't get much past William Birkin.

The couple followed Marcus to a room located at the back of the lab, separated from the rest of the facility by a thick metal door bearing a safe-like lock operated by the twisting of what looked like a giant steel wheel. Once a key card had been scanned by their mentor, he nodded towards the locking mechanism. "If you wouldn't mind assisting me, Doctor Wesker."

Wesker nodded. Since he was the only one in the room with any sort of significant muscle mass, Wesker was certainly the best choice to operate the imposing looking door. Even though he was in pique physical condition, Wesker found himself grunting with exertion as he forced the large cog to turn.

He briefly wondered what the foreboding door was holding back and if he should really be forcing his way into the other room where this "Lisa" was waiting. He reasoned though that at this point, it would be a foolish move on Dr. Marcus's part to get him killed opening a stupid door. It was impossible that he'd accidentally initiate some sort of biohazard as opening the room would expose not only Birkin and himself, but also Dr. Marcus to any sort of airborne pathogen contained within. This Lisa was probably some sort of...test subject restrained or contained with in the room. Human? He doubted it. They'd never gotten anything larger then a rat to survive more than forty eight hours.

Still, when he felt the door give as the final locks released, he glanced at Birkin meaningfully and cautiously stepped back towards his companions, allowing the door to open on its own.

If Marcus noticed any of Wesker's trepidation mirrored by the other scientist at his side, he said nothing, a feral grin tugging lightly at the corner of his lips while Wesker moved away.

As the twelve inch think metal barrier swung forwards a chilling unearthly sound filled the room. It was an inhuman mix of hissing, moans, and what might have been quiet sobs. Wesker stiffened. It was obvious that whatever was contained in that room had been severely altered just by the shutter inducing noises it was making, but as far as he knew, there was only one creature that even came close to being able to make those sounds and that...that was a human girl.

Such knowledge in hand, Wesker steeled himself, his face becoming an impassive mask further assisted by the dark impenetrable lenses of his sunglasses. He was determined not to show any sign of weakness before Dr. Marcus, doing so could have drastic consequences, consequences he prayed Birkin understood as well. Perhaps they were looking for new test subjects? Already being a Wesker, Albert didn't want to give them any more reason to look his way.

Once the entryway to the room had been completely opened, Wesker a Birkin peered cautiously but curiously into dimly lit area from which the ghastly sounds were coming. This low light in combination with Wesker's always present choice of eye ware made it difficult to discern the what exactly had just caused Birkin to gasp and move a few steps closer to him, but he didn't take the glasses off; he never did. Instead, he waited the few extra seconds for his eyes to adjust and he too was able to make out the horror contained within this section of the lab.

Wesker felt his stomach clench painfully. Contained behind the thick bars of a steel cage barely big enough to hold a large dog was a...oh God he didn't even know  _what_  it was anymore. Its shape was basically human but the legs and arms—suspended above its grisly head by a barbaric wooden block chained to the ceiling in a manner that barely allowed the creature to sit—were too long. The skin that was visible was a sickly gray color that resembled dead flesh and gave off a stench to match. The rest of its body was scarcely covered in a tattered, blood caked, and otherwise soiled nightgown that had probably once been white. Wesker could see a few of the giant eye-like boils typical of the virus protruding from her severely hunched back. The thing's toe and fingernails had been horribly elongated into something resembling dilapidated talons.

Worst of all were the face _s._  The most horrible part of the mutation's features was not just limited to one but at least three of the disgusting parts of anatomy. The first of the grotesque masses of flesh was where it should have been, centered in the front of her ugly scull only partially hidden by her messy, scarce patches of stringy brownish blond hair. The jaw had been twisted to the side with sharp unnatural teeth sticking up at odd intervals with nothing even resembling lips to cover the skeleton-like grin. The forehead was swollen and out of proportion with the rest of the misshapen body, and the eyes were like two bulbous cesspools colored a dead yellow. Much like the absence of lips, there were no lids to cover the monster's always open, staring orbs.

Another of the thing's faces looked as though it had been smacked carelessly over the left hand side of its head. The flesh had a green tinge to it and looked to be well on its way to decaying, the features heinously marred by the rot and visible mold thriving on its surface. The other faces were in no better condition, perhaps worse. They too had been positioned over the twisted body in places that they didn't belong.

He heard Birkin gag next to him, one hand over his month, the other trembling one grabbing onto Wesker's shoulder for support. "W-What..." he coughed. "What in God's name is that thing?!"

Wesker gripped William's arm painfully, trying to get across the message that he  _needed_  to calm down  _now_.

Dr. Marcus's sick grin only widened as he stepped into the room, the disgusting whimpering beast recoiling slightly at his approach. "That...that is Lisa Trevor."

So much for Wesker's theory that the Trevors were living it up on some foreign beach...

"How long as she been infected?" Wesker inquired, his voice devoid of all emotion, his eyes locked on Dr. Marcus.

"Since sixty seven so..." he paused in momentary thought, "eleven years to date."

Wesker was stunned. "She's survived Progenitor for so long... How?"

"Unfortunately," sighed Marcus. "We haven't the slightest clue." He fetched her rather imposing looking chart from the table and passed it to Wesker who began to flip through it, holding it open so that Birkin might too benefit from the information. "There have been some speculations that it was her young age at the time of exposure—fourteen I think."

_...So this is the daughter..._

Marcus continued as if that fact didn't bother him in the least. "It it was more likely some oddity in her genetic makeup that allowed her and the virus to bond. Of course, her genes are so mutated now that we couldn't even begin to back trace the origins."

"Does she have any s-siblings?" questioned Birkin, finally having put himself together. "If the trait was...familial we might be able to..." He trailed off, but it was enough.

Wesker was floored. He comprehended the importance of keeping up with appearances and understood with a shudder that this meant he would most likely have to experiment on this abomination, but for William to suggest kidnapping and exposing others to the same treatment... Perhaps Birkin was a better actor than Wesker gave him credit for. Or maybe...maybe Birkin was just as curious and fascinated by the whole disturbing situation as Wesker was loathed to admit he was.

Dr. Marcus smiled. "An interesting suggestion, Doctor Birkin. Alas, aside from our Lucky Lisa, all the other Trevors are dead."

_Lucky? Hardly._

"Although...when her mother was exposed, to a different strain mind you, she showed no signs of mutation before they had her killed."

Suddenly Lisa was no longer a passive bystander.

The creature screamed and wrenched against the chains binding her.

Wesker tensed, his weight subconsciously shifting to the balls of his feet in preparation for a confrontation. Birkin jumped back, basically pressing his back into Wesker's chest, re-grabbing his arm. Marcus was too busy preparing a sedative to take notice.

"Muth...Muther! Whar me Muther?!"

Wesker was appalled. He had no idea the thing still possessed human reason and memory, a fact the deep guttural voice coming from the mutilated throat confirmed without a doubt.

"Nee...to...need..to giv it bak...!" Another roar. "Giv bak FACE!"

The sedative, enough to kill an adult bull elephant, was injected through an IV port, the device held firmly in place by the ancient forms of restraints.

After a few more seconds of barely interpretable shouts, the creature was subdued back into mindless mutterings thorough which Wesker could occasionally make out the word, "mother."

"Well," panted Dr. Marcus, "as you can see, best not to mention the 'M' word around her. Poor Lisa gets a tad bit upset."

 _No, really?_ seethed Wesker mentally.  _I wonder why..._  Wesker was thankful his sunglasses hid his glare.

"It's quite a touchy subject with her. They tried sending in 'replacements' for 'M' and 'F,' other scientists but she..." He sighed. "Well, she ripped their faces off and stuck them to herself." He waved a hand over to the gangrenous pieces of flesh hanging from her form. "You can see the results for yourselves."

Wesker was surprised Birkin didn't faint.

"If I had of been in charge of the project, things would have never gotten so out of hand," the doctor muttered heatedly.

A few moments of silence before Dr. Marcus broke it with a clap of his hands causing everyone else in the room—including Lisa—to jump. "Shall we continue on with the tour?"

If Lisa was only the beginning, Wesker wasn't sure he wanted to see the rest. Thankfully, it seemed that the abomination formerly known as Lisa Trevor was the worst of the secrets kept beneath the Arklay Mansion. However, this fact did not make Dr. Marcus's six inch or larger black slugs any less disgusting.

Wesker was surprised when, without any prompting, Dr. Marcus took them over to the giant tank that had been built into the back wall on the west side of the laboratory that was infested with the sickening creatures their mentor had been avidly studying for the entire past year at least.

Wesker regarded the strange black shapes with expertly disguised disdain as they wriggled over one another and climbed up the glass leaving nasty black trails of slime in their wake. He listened to Dr. Marcus drawl on incessantly about the little monsters and his project as Wesker contemplated the satisfying  _pop_  they would make if they were stepped on with his boot. His observations didn't miss the multiple rows or razor sharp, needle-like teeth lining the creatures tiny, circular, endlessly sucking maws.

"These leeches are remarkable," gushed Dr Marcus. "They are the only organisms thus far that have survived when injected with the Type-B variation of Progenitor—aside from Lisa that is."

"Do you know why they survive the exposure?" asked Birkin excitedly, his face inches from the thin layer of glass separating him from what was undeniably a swarm of hungry, flesh eating, mutant slugs—sounded like something out a bad sci-fi flick...

As Dr. Marcus became absorbed in his explanation of his extraordinary work, Wesker reached over and gently but firmly pulled back on Birkin's shoulder. His friend being so close to something that dangerous which could easily kill him was making Wesker exceedingly nervous.

Birkin glared at Wesker and pulled his shoulder free which only caused Wesker to growl and pull him back more painfully.

"Not exactly," responded Dr. Marcus, not noticing the quiet little exchange but preventing Birkin from continuing it. "It may be a phenomenon similar to flowers the virus was originally discovered within. Progenitor has obvious preferences for its hosts that were are still far from understanding. That's something I would like you and Doctor Wesker to find out if at all possible."

He gestured back towards the room serving as Lisa's prison. "Management of the Lisa Project will be primarily under your control." He nodded to both the doctors present. "While I will focus my attention on my current line of research since I'm most familiar with it. Between the three of us, I presume we should be able to uncover the secrets behind Progenitor."

Birkin nodded in understanding, even though the last thing he wanted was to go back into the sealed room and interact with the cadged monstrosity within.

"Why leeches?" wondered Wesker aloud as he looked into the dark tank with an unreadable expression. "What lead you to choose them as hosts for the virus?"

Marcus regarded him thoughtfully. "Their simple make up I suppose; less factors to address."

Wesker tipped his head in understanding. Regardless of the man's reasoning, he really hated leeches, especially the grotesque ones belonging to Doctor Marcus.

* * *

_July 29th,_ _1978; Spencer Mansion:_

Wesker sighed in temporary contentment as he turned off the warm water, letting his body remain under the dwindling stream until the last drops joined their predecessors in traveling down his defined form. If there was one thing Wesker loved in life—aside from himself, power, and possibly Birkin—it was showers, hot ones. Calling Wesker a "clean freak" wasn't far off the mark. The always put together blond wasn't happy unless he'd partaken in at least two showers each day; one in the morning and one at night right before he went to bed.

Once Wesker had completely finished enjoying his second cleaning, he stepped outside the expensive looking, glass enclosed structure. Another plus to the move was that each of the sixteen or so scientists, Birkin and himself included—most of whom worked in the rooms on the third level of the basement—got their own  _very_  nice rooms. These bedrooms were located on the both the first and second floors of Lord Spencer's mansion. On the second floor they were situated on either side of the short hallway that ran straight back from the top of the mansion's main set of stairs. And on the first, along hall directly behind the grand staircase.

The blond had to admit, he was thankful that he and Birkin were located on the first floor rather than the second. For those unlucky scientists, the path to their living quarters would take them through a door depicting part of the huge, rather creepy graveyard mural that took up the entire back wall of the estate's entrance hall. To be specific, through the gigantic headstone of the huge picture. What made it worse, the door at the end of that particular hall opened up onto an actual graveyard located behind the mansion. Wesker was by no means superstitious but that situation was far too morbid for his tastes.

Wesker removed a black fluffy towel from the rack it had been hanging on and, after running it over his wet form a few times to get off the majority of the water, he wrapped it around his slender waist. Grabbing another as he exited the steamy bathroom Wesker rubbed it though his dripping blond hair that he would have addressed with his hairdryer had it been morning.

It would be an understatement to claim that he was very pleased as he stood in the bathroom door taking in his plush surrounding by the dancing light of the freshly lain fire in the room's hearth. Each of the living quarters allotted to the mansion's new, scientifically oriented occupants were decked out to the nines, perfectly suitable to appeal to the tastes of even the most pompous of aristocrats. He imagined with a grin that the others, including his dear Birkin, were very far out of their element.

Wesker's own chambers were carpeted in a rich, deep red carpet which his bare feet slightly sunk into with each step as he padded silently across it. The mahogany wood used to trim the foyer and the halls of the mansion made a return in this gorgeous room in the form of a grand writing desk, huge dresser, gigantic walk in closet that he couldn't ever hope to fill, and a towering book shelf filled only partially with a wide variety of appealing reading materials he would be sure to add to.

The king sized bed he had just finished lazily walking towards, actually had a canopy of a dark red velvety material a similar shade to the carpet with a matching, intricately embroidered bedspread. Underneath the heavy comforter, hid a set of the most luxurious black, silk sheets Wesker had ever laid eyes on.

The blond could  _definitely_  get used to this and he briefly wondered how Birkin was handling the sudden switch from their cramped shared living quarters and rather poor cafeteria to the royal looking rooms and elegant dining hall.

Deciding these sinful looking sheets were more important then imagining Birkin bumbling though his own room, Wesker switched off the lights, dropped both his towels on an impressive looking arm chair, and slipped between their nearly liquid contours. With a sigh of pleasure, Wesker decided to never regret his decision to always sleep naked again.

It wasn't long after that Wesker found out exactly how Birkin had been fairing in his room right across the hall. Just as the blond had felt himself drifting into a blissful sleep between the unearthly sheets, he heard the door lock click and then swing slowly inwards. Wesker stiffened, previously lazy eyes shooting open, his hand tightening around the small but deadly knife hidden underneath his pillow. He relaxed completely when he recognized the slight form and mousey features of his friend in the dancing fire light.

"What, scared to sleep alone?" he mocked condescendingly.

Birkin didn't even deign to answer, instead wasting no time in jumping under Wesker's covers and moving as close as possible to the familiar body.

Wesker raised a eyebrow. "I'll take that as a yes..." he almost laughed, his arms opening automatically to accommodate Birkin's form before closing in around him.

"I don't know if I can do this, Al," Birkin muttered, burying his face in in Wesker's sensitive neck. "This is much worse," he took in a sharp breath, "so much worse than Stephen."

Wesker repositioned himself so he could better regard his friend, running a hand down his back before reaching it under the hem of William's pajamas so that he could better stroke the boy's sensitive spine. "What's the alternative?" he asked soothingly.

Birkin shivered, partially from the touch, partially in response to the question Wesker had posed to him. "There..." He swallowed. "There isn't one. We either do it or..."

"Or we die," finished Wesker unemotionally. "Probably in a very similar way to our new subject." He furthered lowered his voice so that he was practically whispering in Birkin's ear. "At this point we don't have the freedom, power, nor the resources to present any sort of evidence to anyone. Do you honestly think they'd believe us? We'd be dead before anyone saw it as anything more than a foolish prank."

Birkin nodded gravely, his grip tightening around Wesker. "We're...never going to be able to get out are we?" It was a hopeless plea placed to Wesker's soft skin by trembling lips.

Wesker hesitated. "No...right now, I don't see that as a possibility."

Birkin pulled back only enough to stare at him, the rest of his form clinging to Wesker like he was his last refuge in the raging storm crashing around them. "Then how are you going to...have you given up?" The despair in Birkin's voice was similar to a child being let down by their hero.

Wesker smiled cruelly before pressing his now much more talented lips to Birkin's sealing the kiss with the sharp bite that always followed. "Have you ever known me to 'give up'?" He inquired almost scathingly as he ran a hand through Birkin's messy straw colored locks.

Birkin pressed closer. "No..."

"Wesker placed his forehead against Birkin's forcing the younger boy to look him in his uncharacteristically, uncovered eyes as best as the flickering light would allow. "Than why doubt me now? The time to strike may not be for years, Dearheart. But be patient, good things come to those who wait."

Birkin was heavily under Wesker's spell by now, but he still had to be difficult. "A-and in the meantime?"

"We play the part of good little researchers. That thing down there, it's already gone, it has no hope. I'm not going to throw away my future for a monster such as that. Tell me, Will," he questioned wickedly, repositioning their bodies until he was on top of his partner, domineeringly straddling him—William certainly had no objections, "whose lives are more valuable, ours or that thing's?"

"Ours!" Birkin gasped as Wesker snaked a hand under the front of his shirt to painfully accost on of his tender, pink nipples.

"Hnnn..." crooned Wesker as he watched Birkin writhe underneath his touch; it was something he never grew tired of. "That's what I thought... Just detach from the whole thing," he purred in Birkin's ear before running his tongue over it. "Focus on what's  _really_  important. And...do try to enjoy yourself."

"I-I don't know if you're talking about right now...or down stairs in the labs," panted a now flushed Birkin.

Wesker chucked deep in has chest, a sound that drove Birkin almost as crazy as his touches. "Perhaps a bit of both..." He paused as he moved Birkin's cooperative arms up over the seventeen year old's head. "Hmm...but I don't recommend we do this downstairs if that's where you were headed with that comment. Doctor Marcus would disapprove most adamantly."

Birkin scoffed. "God you are a perverted bastard sometimes, Al."

That dark seductive chuckle again. "Oh, and I wonder why  _that_  is," he laughed as he pulled Birkin's striped nightshirt over his head and tossed it somewhere in the dark room. Wesker then covered Birkin's mouth and raked his nails down William's pale flesh, leaving five, angry red tracks in his wake.

Birkin moaned loudly against Wesker's flesh. Unlike his partner, Birkin never could contain the noises Wesker so easily drew out of him. As such, he was grateful Wesker was taking precautions not to let the rest of the hall in on their little secret romance.

* * *

Birkin usually never objected to any of the wild, crazy, painful things Wesker did to him when they fucked, made love, whatever, but he suddenly felt the need to voice his concerns to his domineering lover. Wesker had him braced up against the headboard face down and had begun to spread his naked thighs apart, sliding his knees up the impossibly slippery sheets.

"A-Al," he moaned, spitting out the makeshift gag Wesker had conjured up out of one of the silk pillowcases. "P-please use some c-com...common sense here...I...ahh...I don't want to have to...ha...ahh...explain to Doctor Marcus why...hnn...I'm limping...mmm!"

Wesker ceased the movements of the hand he had been using to temporally pleasure Birkin. "Well," he licked his somewhat sticky fingers, "I  _was_  going to go easy on you, but then you had to get cheeky..."

"Oh, God..." muttered Birkin hanging his head before Wesker shoved the pillow case back in him mouth. This was  _really_  going to hurt...

* * *

_July 30th,_ _1978; Spencer Mansion, Underground Labs, Level B4:_

"Doctor Birkin...?" Dr. Marcus regarded the younger of his two proteges curiously as he walked by the elder man's station towards Lisa's door following on the coat tails of his partner. There was an undeniable...limp to his step and the boy had hissed in pain when he'd  _attempted_  to sit down for report a few minutes ago, opting to stand in the end.

"Y-yes, Sir?" responded a startled Birkin as he whipped around to face his superior.

"Something wrong?" inquired Wesker. The gesture was almost protective in nature and it gave Dr. Marcus a moment of pause before he proceeded.

"Are you quite alright?" he questioned of the youngest researcher Umbrella currently had.

Birkin blinked in confusion. "Beg pardon."

Marcus gestured vaguely towards the boy's lower half. "You have a rather pronounced limp."

Birkin flushed a color similar to the apple Wesker had eaten for breakfast as all the blood rushed to his face. The sight was quite remarkable as Albert had no idea people could be such a color. It made it that much harder to contain the snicker trying to burst from his throat and momentarily impossible to hid the wicked grin tugging at his lips.

As Birkin was obviously in no position to respond, Wesker took over when he should have left well enough alone. "He just sprained a few muscles when he was...settling in last night. Doctor Birkin's hips are, unfortunately,  _very_  inflexible."

If Birkin could have died right then and there from mortification, he would have. He also would have strangled his complete arse of a boyfriend in front of Dr. Marcus if he didn't think it would make things worse. As it was, he allowed Wesker to lead him off with a gentle tug on his jacket sleeve while Dr. Marcus contemplated what William could have possibly done while moving in that would have involved pulling a hip muscle. He was even more perplexed when he caught a glimpse of Birkin punching Wesker probably as hard as he could in the shoulder as the door to Lisa's room closed.

Those two certainly had an interesting relationship...

* * *

_September 10th,_ _1978; Spencer Mansion, Underground Labs, Level B4:_

"Dammit, Will! Hold her back!" Wesker yelled over Lisa's inhuman shrieking.

"Mu..thur! Dad...dy! H-help...m...e!"

"I'm trying, Al!" called back Birkin frantically as he strained to hold the chains in place "Goddammit, Al! Don't get so close!"

"No! Wi...will rip off... tar off...fa..ce! Noooo!"

"You think I  _want_  to be this fucking close to her?!"

This utter chaos in the back room had all started when Lisa's IV had clotted off this morning preventing the administration of drugs or subsequent viral doses and blood draws. Wesker and Birkin had tried a multitude of ways to save the venous access, but to no avail. Eventually, out of necessity, they tried knocking her out with a heavy intramuscular injection of pentobarbital long enough to restart an IV.

They had thought their scheme was a success, right up until Wesker had opened her cage door and removed her wooden wrist shackles. Suddenly Lisa had sprung to life and attempted to rip the blond to pieces. Somehow Wesker had managed to spring back away from her broken talons but she had followed, now halfway out of her cage door, crooked fingers reaching and clawing their way towards him.

The only reason she wasn't completely out of her prison was because of the thick leg shackles bound to the floor. She was now straining so hard against them that blood was running down her pale, dead looking flesh.

Birkin had grabbed the chains through the back of the cage and managed to pull them back, keeping her from instantly killing Wesker, but he wasn't strong enough to do much and his grip was slipping, allowing the grotesque monster to inch closer to his friend who was pinned between the uncaged Lisa and the wall mounted computer bank. Thinking about what those razor claws would do to Wesker, and the thought of this creature adding Wesker's face to her severed collection made Birkin grip the chains until his hands bled.

Wesker had tried moving away, but he was truly trapped, the only thing that was saving him being the tiny space cut into the computer alcove for the operators' knees and feet. Wesker's concealed frantic eyes searched desperately for a way out of this situation. He knew William couldn't hold on for much longer.  _Who the hell makes shackle chains that long anyways?!_

Wesker's racing gaze had just fallen on the abandoned metal pole with a nasty hook on the end they sometimes used to "pacify" Lisa, when he heard Birkin cry out.

"Al! This isn't working! Get out of their! I can't-"

" _MINE!"_

It wasn't much of a warning but it was all Wesker got before the heinous witch was released and came flying towards him with a hellish scream.

With speed he didn't know was possible Wesker reached for, grabbed, and then flipped around the cruel device so that the thin cylindrical steel handle went straight into abomination's yellowed true eye and was carried by her momentum straight out the back of her disguising scull before she collapsed uselessly on top of him.

Wesker nearly gagged when the spongy flesh came down on him, covering him with all kinds of infected fluids, some leaking out of the hole in her hideous face, some seeming to just naturally ooze from her unnatural form. It was all he could do to turn his face away from the virus ridden corpse atop him and push uselessly at her slippery, poorly held together chest. In his desperate attempts to get the failed experiment off of him, he felt his hand pull free a large swatch of rotted flesh, the mat of dying cells sloughing off effortlessly.

"Al!" Birkin screamed in anguish as he rushed to what he presumed to be his dead or dying friend's side. He almost cried in relief when he saw Wesker struggling underneath the limp body.

"G-get...GET IT OFF! Get it off NOW!" Wesker was practically panicking. It would be a miracle if he wasn't already infected.

With Birkin's help they got the dead thing off of him. Wesker was barely able to keep a sobbing William from throwing his arms around his contaminated form as the elder blond made a b-line to the decontamination chamber. He was cut off by Dr. Marcus as soon as he exited Lisa's chambers and moved into the main lab towards it.

"What the  _hell_  did you just do, Doctor Wesker!" He screamed at Albert's slime splattered face, pointing in rage at Lisa's body. "You just destroyed  _years_  of precious research, you _stupid_  brat!" He was advancing while yelling, looking very much like he wanted to take that pole out of Lisa's face and impale Wesker with it. While that may have been true, Wesker sure as hell didn't expect a tear stained Birkin to pull the instrument out of Lisa and practically offer it to Marcus.

"Y-you two m-might want to stand b-back," Birkin urged as he stepped as far away from the harmless body as possible.

It was just a hunch, but he was right, Birkin always was. The tissue samples from Lisa Trevor's body had shown highly regenerative qualities, this combined with the ever shrinking pool of sickening black blood that had poured from her eye socket had lead Birkin to believe that Lisa's suffering was far from over.

"What the hell are you blathering about, Birkin?!" seethed Marcus. "You are just as much to blame as Wes-"

"Mo...ther..."

Lisa's barely audible whisper as the mutilated tissue reformed caused the entire room to fall silent. They all watched in a mixture of awe and repulsion as the broken monstrosity pulled her way across the floor back into her cage where she lay in a corner, curled up in fetal position all the while sobbing for her dead mother, stroking the face she believed belonged to her.

"Incredible..." whispered Marcus as if he'd just seen the most beautiful of miracles.

Birkin closed and latched the cage. "Will you please let doctor Wesker go to decontamination now?" His voice was small but firm.

Marcus nodded and Wesker practically ran out of the nauseating room.

Once the exposed teen reached the metal showers he wasted no time in stripping off ever stitch of his clothing, careful not to break the skin with his frantic efforts. Wesker then took the longest hottest shower of his life, determined to scald the virus from his body, praying none of Lisa's fluids had gotten into his nose, eyes, or mouth.

* * *

_September 14th,_ _1978; Spencer Mansion, Underground Labs, Level B3:_

Wesker sighed, letting his tired head fall against white wall behind him with a thump. He'd been in the isolation chamber for around four days now and he was sick of it all, especially the white. It was everywhere, the floors, walls, ceiling, bed, sheets, and even the scrubs he'd been issued upon entering. It was so much, it made him physically sick, a fact that sent a bolt of fear through his chest.

Every time his body gave the slightest twinge, real or imagined; he felt a little dizzy, his forehead seemed slightly warmer than usual, or he even itched, Wesker silently panicked.

_What if I'm infected?_

The mantra had played through his mind every second of every day for the last four not even giving him any peace during sleep. His dreams were haunted by nightmares of Lisa and then by his own horrific transformation into something equally as disturbing.

It didn't even help that he wasn't showing any symptoms this long after exposure. So what if it was abnormal? He was a Wesker, so the virus might effect him differently. Maybe it would make him the next Lisa. Wesker couldn't even imagine being trapped in a mutilated rotting body, mind barely held together by a few obsessive thoughts, being cruelly experimented on for the rest of eternity by curious Umbrella scientists eager to see what made him tick. Such revelations almost made him feel sorry for Lisa. He would have if she hadn't tried to kill him earlier and if she wasn't the soul reason he was locked in this horrible white room.

He was going crazy in here.

Wesker heard the door open, pulling him from his fearful stewing and jumped to his feet as Birkin walked in. Wesker looked at him questioningly, relaxing only slightly. Birkin visited him everyday in here, but he'd never come inside, only listened to Wesker's endless lists of fears and calmly disproved each of them from the other side of the thick observation glass. He wasn't even wearing a Hazmat suit like the one he worn to escort Wesker to this room and that Wesker had had to don for the trip to this retched prison.

Wesker's questions were answered and fears quenched in the same moment as Birkin charged across the floor and wrapped his arms around Wesker's neck.

"You're fine," Birkin whispered in his ear as Wesker collapsed in relief against him and hugged Birkin with shaking arms. "No virus. Your blood is rather fascinating, but no virus."

"Took you long enough," muttered Wesker. He wasn't going to even bother with the second bit right now. He'd tackle that once he figured out how to stop shaking.

* * *

_September 19th,_ _1978; Spencer Mansion, Underground Labs, Level B4:_

Wesker didn't have the slightest clue how Birkin had managed to convince Dr. Marcus that the entire fiasco with Lisa had been an intentional experiment. Now the old coot thought they were geniuses—which they were...just not for the reasons Dr. Marcus believed.

Due to Birkin's ridiculous lie, the two of them had been allowed deeper access into their mentor's research. Unfortunately, thus far, all it meant was that they got to "properly dispose" of the squishy black bodies of the man's treasured pets that inevitably died from exposure to Dr. Marcus's endless barrage of tests and injections. It was a little degrading honestly; being "trusted enough" to look over a few sparse documents and dispose of dead leeches in the lab's furnaces.

They had nothing better to do with Lisa at the moment, who had been transferred to a gigantic test tube (Wesker hoped permanently); a situation that lent itself well to easy completion of each of the two's desired tests. As such, since around eleven o'clock they were, once again, haplessly incinerating the gigantic leeches, forced to listen to the disturbing wet popping sound as the black flesh boiled, and breath in the overpowering smell of burning rotted flesh.

Birkin was about to pick one of the slimy things up in his heavily gloved hand when he could have sworn he saw it twitch. He stopped and examined the now still creature intently. He'd probably imagined it, but such misconception was rare to non-existent on his part so he just continued to stare at it.

Wesker stopped throwing his pile of decaying black ooze into the fire when he noticed Birkin's sudden lack of productivity. He sighed. "Come on, Will. I know this is menial labor, but seriously."

"I don't think that one's dead," commented Birkin slowly, pointing at the small body he swore he'd seen moving.

Wesker cocked his head to the side. "Looks dead to me, Will." He nudged Birkin playfully but still rather sharply with his elbow. "Come on, I can think of much more  _pleasurable_ things we could be doing..."

Birkin ignored to poorly hidden suggestion. Apparently Wesker  _still_  hadn't gotten over the physical deprivation being locked in a decontamination chamber for four days had caused. Wesker's raging sex drive was nothing new to William and he infuriatingly found the obviously dead experiment more interesting then his boyfriend's current state of arousal.

Wesker huffed in annoyance as he watch Birkin ignore him in favor of moving his face down about a foot away from the rancid pile of goo.

"If you don't think it's dead, why are you getting so close?" he grumbled, folding his arms. "Black slime turn you on more than I do?"

Birkin turned to glare at him. "For the love of God, Al! Will you  _please_  focus on something else besides sex? You've been unbelievably horny for almost a week now and I haven't been able to walk straight since you got out of isolation. Enough is enough!" he raged.

Wesker was grinning the entire time, debating which of three biting comments he already had prepared to retort with. Then he saw the thing on the table move, but it didn't just twitch, it reared up on his back half, exposing its horrific rows of teeth and opened them wide as it prepared to launch itself at the side of Birkin's face.

All the color drained out of Wesker's already pale features as he threw himself forwards, hoping desperately that it would be his shoulder slamming into William's face instead of the thing's razor sharp teeth ripping open his friend's cheek.

Birkin cried out as he hit the floor hard, holding his probably broken nose. Eyes stinging with tears, he held his bleeding face and looked up at Wesker angrily. "What the  _hell_ , Al?! Just because I wouldn't fucking stop what I'm doing to sleep with you?" He stopped his rant when he saw how Wesker was standing there stiffly, eyes locked on the table, breathing hard.

Picking himself up, his heart skipped a beat when he saw Wesker's gloved fist slammed into the strangely red tinged flesh of the now really dead leech. Wesker pulled his hand back, examining the thankfully unmarred surface of the thick glove that he'd squashed the into the needle like maw of the tiny B.O.W..

"I..." he swallowed. "I think it's dead now."

* * *

_September 19th,_ _1978; Spencer Mansion, Underground Labs, Level B4:_

Wesker sighed in annoyance as Birkin continued to obsessively examine his hand. "It's fine Will," he grumbled. "Worry about your nose." He gestured to the somewhat staunched trail of blood running from the abused feature into Birkin's mouth.

Birkin scowled. "What is it with you and close calls with exposure?"

Wesker chuckled hollowly, unintentionally glancing over at thew tiny crushed body of the B.O.W. That had tried to make a meal out of Birkin's cheek "I don't know, Will. You were the one who almost let the thing make out with the side of your face. Trust me, it would bite more than I do."

Birkin glared. "I..." He let out a shaky breath, his hand's tightening over Wesker's. "Th-thank you..."

Wesker actually smiled. "In the future, just keep that hansom mug of yours  _away_  from blood sucking possibly undead monsters, eh?"

Birkin blushed rather deeply at the comment, a fact that only further amused Wesker. Birkin was seriously considering sitting on top of Wesker and giving him what he wanted—Albert _had_  just saved his life after all. He was thankful he hadn't decided to give just yet when he heard the door to the lab open. The youngest researcher desperately attempted to control his blush as Dr. Marcus crossed the white tile floor, walking purposely towards them.

Their mentor frowned when he saw the small pile of bodies that had yet to be turned into ash. He had expected his pupils to be done by now.

"Something the matter?" he questioned in a way that clearly showed he was peeved at their apparent lack for productivity.

"No," responded Wesker in a rather confrontational manner as he stood to glare at Dr. Marcus. "Unless you count one of your experiments trying to kill us again."

Birkin winced. He really hated Wesker's short temper. It was undoubtedly going to get them in real trouble someday; perhaps right this very moment.

Dr. Marcus narrowed his eyes. "Excuse me?"

"One of them  _wasn't_  dead," shot back Wesker.

"Impossible," he argued, icy eyes darting over to the motionless metal tub filled with his failed experiments. "Every creature I gave to you had no vitals.

Wesker didn't even what to know how Dr. Marcus had determined this fact.

"Hmm, my mistake then," he hissed folding his arms. "I suppose a  _dead_  leech attempted to rip Doctor Birkin's face off."

Marcus glared back, but it was more thoughtful them aggressive. " _Impossible...could it really be..._ " the old man muttered to himself. "Are you saying a dead experiment reanimated?" he questioned hurriedly of Wesker, desperate to learn the answer.

Wesker blinked, the conversation was very rapidly moving in a completely different direction than what he had been expecting. "I...was suggesting something more on the lines of you giving us a subject that had yet to fully die."

Marcus waved a hand dismissively. "Not a possibility. Which one was it?" He actually seemed...excited. Then his wrinkled face suddenly fell. "Please tell me you didn't incinerate it..." He looked as though he would feed them to his still alive and very hungry leeches if they had.

Birkin shook his head holding a tissue to his nose and pointed to the squished mess of goo and teeth pooled on the metal tabletop.

Dr. Marcus practically raced to the rancid pile. "Doctor Wesker, I want a sample of this tissue STAT!"

Wesker was still trying to process the reason behind this strange series of events as he passed his mentor the materials he'd require. The fact that Marcus was so intrigued by what had just occurred meant that this was much more then a deadly mistake. Wesker may have hated Dr. Marcus and viewed him as a wicked, self centered, pompous, and insufferably paranoid individual, but the man was an undeniable genius. James Marcus didn't make stupid mistakes and he certainly didn't act the way he was now without good reason.

_"Are you saying a dead experiment reanimated?"_

Was such an event even possible? Wesker remembered with a shudder what had happened nine days ago with Lisa. Yes...yes it was.

The second the sample was prepared, Dr. Marcus was peering deeply into its molecular make up through one of the lab's most expensive and highly powered microscopes. What he saw caused his breath to hitch in his throat. It was beautiful, absolutely beautiful. He'd done it,  _he'd_  conquered death.

" _My God..._ " Wesker heard the elderly man whisper in awed elation. " _It worked..._ " Instantly the suddenly spry old man was on his feet, packaging the sample in a way that barely adhered to laboratory precautions. "Send the rest of the body to my office immediately and then burn the rest of those things!" With that he was gone, leaving Wesker and Birkin with more questions than answers.

"That was...odd..." Birkin muttered as he started preparing to follow Dr Marcus's orders.

Wesker, freed from whatever mental debate he'd been locked in, stopped Birkin's actions by going over to him and roughly jerking his crooked nose back in place. The future attractiveness of Birkin's nose was hardly the priority right now, but it killed two birds with one stone.

"Ow!" howled Birkin in response the the unexpected "treatment," holding his throbbing now freshly gushing nose. As such, Birkin failed to see Wesker re-gloving his hands and removing a significant sized lump of tissue from the creature he'd killed and placing it in a petri dish.

"Al!" Birkin objected loudly once he'd gotten the pain under control and pieced together what Wesker had just done.

"What?" retorted Wesker heatedly. "I'm sick and tired of being left in the dark and treated like his damn lab assistant."

Birkin winced. This was  _not_  going to be pretty... unlike his face, which Wesker had apparently taken great cares to fix. "Day one when I met you, what was the first advice I ever gave to you?"

Wesker smiled almost fondly as he took the necessary steps to allow him to see what Dr. Marcus had looked upon with such reverence. "Not to mention or even look at his leeches."

Birkin nodded gravely.

"Wesker just grinned like the devil he truly was. "Dearheart, when have I  _ever_  listened to you?"

Birkin scowled.

* * *

_September 19th,_ _1978; Spencer Mansion, Underground Labs, Level B4:_

The rat died.

Then it came back to life.

Contained in a metal cage sealed behind the contamination glass, the rat had died in a horrible way, afflicted with a raging, delirium inducing fever, a horrific skin pealing rash, massive swelling and inflammation, and a nasty outbreak of disgusting, foul smelling, puss filled, weeping boils that burst at the slightest provocation. The illness had progressed rapidly causing massive internal bleeding and lesions within the tiny mammal's lungs that caused it to first cough up and them vomit copious amounts of blood and dead sloughed cells. Finally the rat seized, jerking powerfully and erratically as if trying to shake all the life out of its little body.

This new virus, extracted from the reanimated leech, killed the rat within three hours. The method of death was very similar to how Progenitor killed, but lacked the obvious disfiguring mutations of its mother virus.

Then this strain did something progenitor never had.

Fifteen minutes after the rodent had passed, all vitals ceasing, it came back to life.

First it twitched once then it jerked a few times before its empty, clouded over, blood shot eyes opened, it leapt to its bloodied feet, and began a slow, stiff legged repeating circle around its enclosure. It seemed for all purposes to be searching for something incessantly, but it still looked dead. The eyes were lifeless and the wounds it had developed prior to death looked worse and were covered in a mixture of puss and black coagulated blood with obvious signs of early decay setting in.

It also had no heartbeat.

The biggest difference was in the creature's temperament. Whereas before infection it had been a rather docile, albeit terrified lab rat, now it was extremely aggressive, trying to attack anything that moved with vicious enthusiasm.

Things  _really_  got interesting when Birkin suggested they put another rat in there with it.

As soon as the other rat was introduced to the afflicted specimen's enclosure, the infected one had been drawn to it, constantly and insistently seeking it out and following it with slow uncoordinated movements. The unaffected rodent was trying its best to avoid the unnatural creature but it eventually grew tired and opted to attack its hunter instead.

The infected rat ate it.

The experiment didn't even wait until the other animal was dead. As soon as the infected rodent had got its teeth into its pray it latched on and started ripping, biting, and devouring. The infected animal quickly overpowered its victim and began tearing out its intestines, feasting upon the exposed innards, the other rat screaming the entire time.

"Dear God..." muttered Birkin as he watched the horrific act, eyes unable to move from the gore within the cage. Even through the protective glass he could hear the other creature's agony laced cries as it desperately tried to escape the torture of being eaten alive.

About fifteen minutes after the second rat stopped struggling uselessly against the monster atop it and fell still, it too reanimated. Despite the obviously mortal wounds, it pulled itself to its feet and dragged its open hollowed out belly and what was left of its ragged intestinal tract across the metal floor, joining its murderer in its never ending pacing around the empty blood stained cage. The wound wasn't even bleeding anymore, instead oozing a sickening black layer of coagulated blood.

Once both of the creatures had died and reanimated they ignored each other, occasionally bumping up against the other but otherwise seemingly unaware of the other creature's existence.

Each of the infected animals were inescapably drawn to living flesh, desperate to sate an insatiable hunger by sinking their little razor sharp fangs into anything with a pulse. One of the rats they were experimenting on ate so much that its stomach actually burst wide open. Split apart by the sheer volume being stuffed ravenously into it, releasing a nauseating stream of blood, guts, and chunks of flesh, tendons, and bone onto the cage floor.

It still kept eating.

Finally, the infected rats seemed impervious to pain and unable to die from even the most grievous of injuries. One of the most unfortunate of the creatures had been ripped apart by a small hoard of the infected animals. Once the transformation had taken place, the upper half just pulled itself around the cage on its front paws, dragging the messy trail of internal organs and ragged spinal column behind it.

As of yet, Birkin and Wesker had only been able to kill the experiments by crushing their bloodied, matted heads. It was both the most disturbing and captivating thing the two had ever witnessed.

"Fascinating, isn't it?" whispered Dr. Marcus venomously behind the two transfixed teens.

Each of them jumped as an electric jolt of fear shot though them, turning to face the deadly looking man behind them. Wesker wasn't sure whether he wanted his back to the doctor whose research he'd just severely trespassed into or the contained cage filled with the group of infected ravenous rodents trying to chew through the enclosure bars behind him. As the experiments were obviously distracted, desperate to get at the other cage filled with cowering uninfected rodents Wesker and Birkin were using to test if the virus was airborne or only transmitted by direct contact with infected body fluids—as with Progenitor—Wesker decided Dr. Marcus was the bigger threat.

"Sir!" yelped Birkin panicking. "I...we...um...this isn't...oh God..."

Wesker stomped on Birkin's foot to get him to shut up. "Seems you were correct about the reanimation of that leech," he responded coolly.

Marcus smirked in amusement. "Initiative...I like that. Just be sure that...motivation of yours doesn't lead you to a very  _deadly_  destination. There is nothing I despise more than research thieves."

Wesker smiled calmly at him. "Sir, if Doctor Birkin and I had truly wanted to steal your research, I would strongly question our intelligence since we chose to preform the experiment in the same lab." He shoved their notes on the exposed rats towards Dr. Marcus. "We just found it necessary to obtain the knowledge needed to assist you further in this fascinating experiment."

Birkin would have kissed Wesker right here and now to get at that amazing silver tongue of his if Dr. Marcus wasn't here. Wesker's ability to spin words was truly remarkable.

Their mentor returned Wesker's cold smile. "I like you Doctor Wesker...but that is a very fine line you are walking."

Wesker's smirk only widened. "Well than, I shall have to take special care not to slip."

A few tense moments of silence passed before Dr. Marcus relented, actually laughing. "See that you do."

The lead researcher gestured to the cage behind his two proteges. "I call it the Tyrant Virus, for obvious reasons."

Neither Wesker or Birkin could argue. It was apt nomenclature.

"T-Virus or T for short. The rabbits I exposed behaved in a similar manner."

Wesker and Birkin didn't even want to imagine the fluffy white rabbits that the mansion labs kept stocked ripping each other to shreds and being reborn as nightmarish little monsters; white fur all stained red, long tender ears ripped to shreds. Although, the concept of a herbivore suddenly exhibiting such violent predatory characteristics was fascinating.

"I have a feeling Tyrant will be much less selective about its victims, and as you can see, the results have a high duplicability between subjects. With the added scientific marvel of reanimation, Umbrella and Lord Spencer should finally have the virus they've been searching for."

Both his students stayed silent as they contemplated the implications behind his words.

Marcus chuckled gleefully, watching though the glass as the the undead rats reached their greedy little hands through the bars in a useless effort to cannibalize their uninfected compatriots. "All that's left now is to finally get the go ahead to move on to human test subjects.

The younger doctors' expressions stayed completely schooled as they imagined the horrors that would soon follow.

"The order should be put through by the end of next month. Just you wait, soon everything; all those long years...they'll be worth every last drop of sweat and blood. I'm going to change the world."

He was insane, and quite obviously talking to himself rather then Wesker or Birkin.

* * *

_October 23rd,_ _1978; Spencer Mansion Grounds:_

Dr Marcus was right. Once the horrifically amazing data from the Tyrant Virus had been submitted to the higher ups in Umbrella, Lord Spencer in particular, Project T was approved instantly. Not long after that, Lord Spencer himself had given Marcus the go ahead to move on from rats, rabbits, and monkeys to human trials.

That same bleak October day, the first cargo boxes arrived. They were brought in hanging from huge black helicopters. Each of the giant boxes supported a giant Umbrella logo on their sides with the company motto, " _Our Business is Life Itself_ ," scrawled in fancy cursive under the octagonal white and red logo.

Wesker didn't think the people trapped within would agree with that statement.

Hidden in what could only amount to the last five feet of the cargo box, behind a false wall, were about fifteen shackled, heavily drugged humans.

Umbrella had sent four semis to a small ranger station about halfway up the mountain. From there, their cargo was flown into the facility. To hide the delivery's true cargo, the rest of the boxes were stuffed with innocuous lab equipment.

All in all it amounted to about sixty fresh human test subjects.

Wesker's insides were doing flip-flops and his hands were actually shaking as he watched the events from one of the mansion's windows with an obviously trembling Birkin.

The prisoners were being ushered down from the crates by U.S.S. (Umbrella Security Service) soldiers clad in full out riot gear, caring billy clubs, activated stun rods, and holstered handguns. It all seemed like overkill, but the condition of their future "lab rats" was even more disturbing.

Each individual in the strict lines was shackled and wearing in crisp white scrubs. Their eyes were clouded over and almost unseeing due to the amount of drugs circulating through their systems, and their skin was pasty white, as if they never even seen the sun before.

Wesker felt Birkin cling to him tighter and he knew why. He too was remembering Dr. Marcus's chilling response to the question he asked their mentor earlier this week.

_"Where are they going to get human test subjects without anyone knowing that they've gone missing?"_

He wished he'd  _never_  asked.

Apparently, to combat the rather annoying criminal justice system and its consequences to kidnapping and human experimentation, Umbrella had used its unending power and twisted ingenuity to develop a human breeding farm. Instead of capturing many, they only took a few from remote locations with unimportant status. Then they breed them, raised the children on a company prescribed diet in almost complete isolation and repeated the process until they had a significant population of heavily drugged, uneducated, socially unexceptionable, and essentially mindless test subjects from which to choose from. The factory was apparently located underground in some remote location in Canada to further avoid detection.

Oh how Dr. Marcus had gushed over the pure ingeniousness of it all while Wesker and Birkin had tried hard to keep their faces from turning as deathly white as they imagined the mass produced people they would soon be testing the T-Virus on, and their gruesome transformations into the flesh eating monsters created by the virus.

It was sick; wicked; the most horrible thing Wesker had ever heard in his life. How had Umbrella, Lord Spencer, Dr. Marcus, and his retched name sake gotten away with their never ending, forever growing list of inhuman atrocities? Why had no one ever stopped them? Could they  _ever_  be stopped? Or would Umbrella's blood soaked legacy continue on indefinitely?

These were the thoughts rushing though Wesker's mind as he watched the advancing line of doomed individuals being marched by seemingly uncaring U.S.S. soldiers towards the opening in the fountain. This cruel death march would be their last and only opportunity to experience the sun and breath in fresh air before they felt death's cold unrelenting grasp and then were brought back into a hellish existence by the unholy virus he and Birkin had helped to create.

Suddenly, one of the subjects below broke ranks and sprinted wildly and clumsily towards the imagined safety of the forest. He didn't get far. The loud gunshot meant that they now only had fifty nine cowering cave people to work with.

Wesker put an arm protectively around Birkin. Unlike the now dead body on the Estate's lawn staining the grass red, Wesker and Birkin had no grand illusions about escape.

There was no turning back now.

* * *

_September 19th, 1978...the day Tyrant was first unleashed upon the world starting an apocalyptic chain of events that could never truly be halted. It was a slow and painful end to all life and humanity that had already begun._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So much was accomplished throughout this chapter, most importantly, the discovery of the Tyrant Virus, though Lisa's introduction was also key.
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed my longest chapter yet. See you next post, 
> 
> -Asiera


	11. Falling Angel 02: In Order to Impress

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Albert has been dealing with Umbrella from a more research oriented position, Alex has been tackling it in a different arena. As Sebastian's personal favorite, Alex has benefited from training in several areas of the Information Department including time spent in the U.B.C.S.. 
> 
> Now he, and two other Wesker Children are given a shot at one of the highest non-research positions in Umbrella: a spot on the U.S.S.. The catch is, only one will be chosen, leaving the rest a soon to be exterminated liabilities. 
> 
> Sebastian wants Alex to win at any and all costs, but even he isn't prepared for what Alex is willing to do in order to impress the company's most brutal group of agents.

 

**Project W: Falling Angel**

**Second Plummet: In Order to Impress**

_May 16th, 1979; Umbrella Headquarters, Parisian Facility:_

There were many things Alex Wesker hated in this world. He hated the color black. He hated mirrors. He hated handcuffs and operating rooms. He hated umbrellas and the company named after the seemingly innocuous red and white parasols. Alex even hated himself. But at the top of that very long list, the item that raked in both the deepest of his disdain and his highest respect was the man who was the reason he had started hating so vehemently in the first place: Sebastian Wesker. He was the individual who had become his mentor, his tormenter, his master, and his father all in the past eight and a half years. Though in all reality, it had only taken the demon days to snake his way into Alex's now polluted soul and twisted mind.

Contrary to the long list of things Alex hated, there was a very scare almost nonexistent list of things he loved. One was his little brother, whom he hadn't really seen in almost a decade. Albert had become Alex's personal obsession; the only reason he still had the will to live, fight, and continue to scheme for the distant day when they would one day escape it all: Umbrella, Wesker...everything.

Aside from Albert, Alex loved consistency. Consistency was something the chaotic environment provided by Umbrella rarely offered. Since he'd sworn allegiance to the company and the man he would someday revel in ripping apart, Alex had been shipped all over the world. He had been brutally trained and viciously shaped by Umbrella's finest, all the while under the watchful poison green eyes of the only thing that remained the same.

In his journey to become the perfect little solider, Umbrella's deadliest experiment to date, Sebastian had been his only constant. The man was a dark shadow that never left his side, pushing him; forcing him to never falter; to always get up and fight harder against forces he barely understood; twisting him into the monster he had already become and whose inhuman form continued to evolve in the most horrid of ways.

Wesker was always there; beside him; around him; in his reflection; in his name; in his very mind and soul. Consistency itself. He loved consistency. He supposed in some strange circular way that this meant he loved  _him_.

Alex shivered. The thought made him sick and it only gave Albert's Reflection more devastating ammunition to use against him, so he pushed it from his head, instead refocusing his gaze on the very topic of his latest mental tangent.

Alex knew him. He knew his smell—not unlike a deep pine forest but the sent was just a bit too sharp to be real. It was underlain with something so slight, one could only detect it when the man was right next to them; too close. The barely there sweet smell of roses always made Alex's stomach turn as did the feeling of the man's vice like grip on his shoulders or his arm, or the deceptively gentle but domineering sensation of the Sebastian's always silk gloved, long fingers stroking through his hair or over his shoulders when he praised Alex. That's the only time he smelt it. The combination was nearly unbearable.

Alex remembered each feature making up the tall overbearing form of his master in exquisite detail. From his sharp gaunt features colored like pure cream, his piercing almost unnaturally green eyes resting coyly behind square, silver, wire frame spectacles, to the way he expertly pulled back his perfectly straight raven black hair so that nothing but the small, stark white strands of the natural streak on the left side of his hair line fell into his face. Alex had heard of people who had the natural pigmentation anomaly and that it was supposedly some link back to European royalty. Still, the white on black looked strikingly strange, further adding to the inhuman aspect to his guardian.

Finally, Alex knew the way he sounded. The smooth British accent of the words flowing from his curled lips like liquid silk with unmatched, precise poise. It was a haunting melody that Alex both loathed and admired with equal amounts of conflicting emotion. It was all too clear where his own similar accent and twisting words had originated. Alex wanted that sliver tongue nearly bad enough to rip it from between Sebastian's ever smirking lips.

Alex might not be as skilled as the devil sitting across the chess board from him, either in weaving words into wonderfully manipulating lies or the mastery of the black and white squares, but he was learning,  _fast_. Over the last eight and a half years, Alex had become everything Sebastian had predicted;  _wanted_  him to become, and more. The man could not have been more thrilled about his prized pupil; the star member of Project W. To hell with the rest of the brats. As far as Sebastian was concerned, Alex was the only one worthy of his name.

Sebastian watched in amusement as Alex expertly manipulated the white marble pieces around the board. Yes, Alex was extraordinary, but he was still unhoned—amazing since even now, at the age of only eighteen, Alex was able to accomplish so much. Well... aside from being able to beat his mentor in a chess match; at least, not yet.

"Checkmate" Sebastian announced coolly as he finished tightening the noose of his latest ensnarement around the boy who got better with each defeat. He could never beat Alex twice in the same way. Each game had to be different; a new trick applied because the boy;  _his_  boy, never forgot.

Alex didn't say anything, his bright storm colored eyes studying the battleground he'd just been destroyed upon so that he would never lose like this again.

"Yes...it seems that way," Alex said at length once he'd finished his scan.

A long pause where the two opponents just stared at one another.

"May I go now? Or was there something else?" Alex inquired unemotionally. They had these games once a week, every Sunday afternoon. There was usually a deeper reason involved, some lesson or assignment. So far, nothing, which lead Alex to believe that he was still far from being released.

Sebastian's grin deepened. "I want you in the U.S.S."

Alex paused. "Umbrella's Security Service?"

Alex had been through most of Umbrella's elite training programs including a few month venture with the U.B.C.S., but never before had the U.S.S. been mentioned to him. They were Umbrella's best; they were the men a women that kept the company's deepest darkest secrets secret; they were the ones who went on the deadliest of missions, where there was little to no chance of survival, and came back...or so he'd heard. This was also the first mention of him actually joining a group within the corporation. Before he'd only learned from them and them moved on. The only person he'd  _worked_  for was Wesker.

"Yes," responded Sebastian as he began clearing away the extravagant chess board and marble playing pieces, "that would be the one."

Alex stared quietly for few moments processing the information before speaking again. "As in further training, or are you saying you actually want me as a member?"

"A member," Sebastian answered setting the now filled wooden chess box back into one of his desk drawers. The man had to smirk to himself when he observed the incredulous look Alex was fixing him with and accurately identified the reason behind such quizzical scrutiny. "Oh fear not Alex," he chuckled with more than a hint of cruelty, "you'll not escape me so easily."

Alex's expression did not falter but the slight relaxing of his shoulders was enough to tell Sebastian that his pupil was a bit relieved. Strange that the boy had become so attached to him. Not that he was complaining; far from it.

"Even when you are instated within the U.S.S. You will still be working for and reporting directly to me." He paused for a moment, considering his words as he always did. "Think of it as your being Project W's... _my_  personal liaison within the Security Service. You will go on missions for them, but your primary orders will still come from me."

Absolute control of him. As it always was.

Alex nodded. "Of course."

Honestly the thought of leaving Sebastian's care, the only thing he even partially understood and could rely on within the monster he was attempting to navigate, no matter how evil the man could be considered, was extremely disturbing to him. He was loathed to admit it, but the wave of relief he had felt wash over him upon hearing Sebastian's reassurances was real. He'd barely let it show but he was sure Sebastian had detected it.

That wasn't the worst of it.

Alex chanced a glance over to the ornate mirror hanging at the back of his mentor's office among various portraits of the company's founders and other higher ups.

Albert's Reflection never needed to see any sort of outward show of emotions to know exactly what had been going on in Alex's head. He just knew. He also hated Sebastian and any sort of inclination Alex displayed towards the man.

Alex was aware it— _he—_ wasn't "real," not in the accepted definition of the word anyway. The boy that had been haunting his image; showing up in almost any reflective surface Alex made eye contact with, was no more than a broken fragment of his mind; severely warped and twisted by the guilt and fear that had brought the delusion into existence in the first place.

At times, the hallucinations were comforting as they were his only means for contact with his long lost brother. Well, aside from the brief glimpses Alex was allowed to have of his unaware sibling though the hidden cameras located throughout each of Umbrella's facilities. These were rare treats Sebastian constantly tempted him with and only rewarded when he did extremely "well" at whatever task the cold man had assigned to him.

Other times, these breaks with reality were the most distressing aspects of his life. This could probably be blamed on the fact that the brother his desperate mind had created nine years ago fluctuated between viciously tormenting and hating him, to cruelty teasing the already broken boy who had called the creation into existence out of a pure burning need to see his brother again. Not that Alex blamed him. How could he? Everything Albert's Reflection said was true and he deserved it; all of it.

"This is of course on the condition that you are accepted."

Sebastian's cool voice pulled Alex's gaze away from the glowering blond in the mirror and set his mind back into what most would have considered reality. He often wondered if Sebastian knew about the damage to his psych that had occurred during that dark trip to the operating room which had never truly healed. If Sebastian did know, he'd never said anything or given any inclination that he was aware of the boy's condition. Alex was quite good at hiding things...than again that skill didn't really apply to his mentor whom he'd never been able to sneak anything by in the past. Regardless, Alex supposed that if Sebastian did know, he didn't seem to care and and if he didn't know, he probably didn't care to.

Either option was fine but neither was relevant at the moment—sometimes the mental tangents his warped mind would entertain were less than helpful. Right now he needed to focus on what his mentor was asking of him. There was some sort of trick to this, he could tell by the almost unnoticeably sharper curve to Sebastian's thin lips.

"There are two other Wesker Children who have also been selected as possible candidates for the position," he revealed at length.

"Did you train them?" The question came out with no hesitation as Alex's mind began to wrap around the possibilities of this new game. He was ninety seven point six percent sure that Sebastian had done no such thing and if he hadn't...well, there wasn't much to this "trick" after all.

"No."

Alex allowed himself to lean further back in his chair. He wondered why Sebastian had even brought it up than. If the director of Project W had hand picked him and completely ignored the others up until this point, there wasn't more than the slightest chance—two point five seven percent—that they were even noteworthy. His beating them at whatever challenge was to ensue and winning the position among Umbrella's most elite was all but assured.

Sebastian shook his head in response to the barely there smug look reflected in his protege's eyes. "Don't go getting cocky now," the man chastised. " Just because I was not directly involved in their upbringing dose not mean they should be underestimated. They were chosen as recruits by the Security Service for a reason. Not to mention, combined, they have a fifteen year advantage on you."

Alex was slightly put off by the fact that Sebastian was ignoring logic in his most recent statement. That would be ensuing that Sebastian was worried he'd lose, and at his own game too. Sebastian never lost. That was something Alex had learned the hard way.

Despite his feelings to the contrary, Alex just nodded obediently. Arguing would get him nowhere and wouldn't change facts anyways.

"So what exactly does this involve?" Alex asked, beginning to think he might be missing something; this just seemed too simple and nothing was ever simple with his master.

Sebastian smiled, resting his chin on his interlaced fingers. "Merely impressing the men sent out by the U.S.S. to select their newest member."

"Which involves?" repeated Alex becoming more than a little put off by how much time it looked like he wasted worrying over nothing.

Sebastian cocked his head to the side, causing the strands of white to fall over the frames of his glasses. "I don't pretend to be able to read the minds of others, Alex." His idea of a joke; getting into other people's heads was Sebastian's specialty. The man had a PHD in psychiatry specializing in children—a fact that made Sebastian's current occupation seem even darker and more twisted than it already was.

Alex actually cracked a soft smirk in response.

"I would assume it would mean outshining your competition. The 'test' will take place here at the main facility, downstairs in the primary simulation room."

Another advantage. Alex had been using the room for years to train. This was just getting ridiculous.

"I'm afraid I don't understand, Sir," Alex finally blurted. "Whatever could you possibly be worried about? Assuming that there's even a possibility that I wouldn't be chosen is utter folly."

Sebastian folded his arms and leaned back in his chair, his eye brows creasing slightly.

Disappointed.

"Did I train you to merely best the useless whelps I discarded across Umbrella's infrastructural?" His already deadly voice lowered slightly. "Come now Alex, it has not to do with the other Wesker Children."

Alex was quiet for sometime as he sorted through the information that had been imparted to him.

"The U.S.S.?" he ventured at length.

"What of it?" shot back his still displeased mentor.

"It's the most prestigious non-research position in Umbrella. They have access to the most classified information throughout the corporation, and aside from Lord Spencer, they are the most powerful entity in Umbrella.

The snake-like grin at the corner of Sebastian's lips was back again. "All of this is true."

Encouraged that he was finally on the right track, Alex continued. "When you said you wanted me to impress the members of the U.S.S. it had nothing to do with my competition. You said you wanted me as your personal liaison within the Security Service, a position that will be of no use to you unless I am stationed highly within the department." He paused smirking softly. "You want me to use this opportunity to embed myself as highly in the organization as possible so you can make better use of me at the soonest possible chance."

Sebastian nodded, readjusting his glasses. "Yes. And seeing as the other children will be 'let go' due to the amount of information they may or may not procure from the process, they are even less of your concern. You should have realized that sooner, Alex. Think before you speak."

Alex was far too busy entertaining a brilliant array of solutions to his current challenge to mind the light scolding Sebastian had just given to him.

"Understood, Sir." Alex got to his feet and began walking to the door, his lesson complete. "I will not disappoint you."

Sebastian's devilish grin widened in anticipation for what his protegee would come up with as he watched him leave, twin white coattails disappearing around the shutting door. "I don't doubt it for a second, Child."

* * *

Alex stalked quickly down the hallway, piecing the rather complicated logistics of his plan together as he went, trying to avoid looking at his twin's reflection in the passing windows. Unfortunately, when his hallucinations demanded his attention, they were difficult if not impossible to ignore. They were in his own head after all.

 **"Does it bother you,"**  began the irate boy, his tone undeniably mocking, **"that the only person you're close to anymore is the man that destroyed us; destroyed me?"**

Alex sighed heavily, rubbing at his temples. He knew he'd have to deal with this exacerbation of his fragile mental state before he could get back to what was really important at the moment.  _'You know very well how that makes me feel.'_  he mentally responded to a part of himself that would never be satisfied no matter how much pain and remorse he felt over the subject.

Albert's Reflection sneered, running a finger over the angry crimson scar etched across the right side of his head that had neither healed nor been concealed since the last time Alex had  _really_  seen him; the full repercussions of the surgery he'd been spared manifesting themselves to Alex in the most dreadful way. Honestly, Alex was surprised his version of his lost brother had even aged at all, but he supposed it was part of what kept the illusion so real.

Albert's Reflection looked, aside from the forever fresh scar, half shaven head, and burning hate filled eyes, exactly like he always would: Identical to his twin. Albert's Reflection was clad in the same pure white tailcoat and equally colored suite. Even his hair was the same, though it looked even more ridiculous on him with his surgically prepared shave than it did on Alex who barely cared enough to loosely pull back the mid-shoulder length strands; unbothered by the chaotically falling, jagged bangs that fell around his features which would have driven his actual twin—the one that existed outside his head—crazy. Perhaps Alex had grown it so long in an attempt to cover the guilt etched scar sported by his twin—not that it had helped any—or maybe it was because Alex just didn't want to look in a mirror long enough to properly cut it.

**"Is that supposed to make me feel any better about it? To make up for anything you've done?"**

_'...No.'_ was the only response Alex could make. Nothing he did seemed that it would ever make a difference in that regard. Unforgivable was a good word; one the reflection used often.

 **"I suppose,"** drawled Albert's Reflection, effortlessly keeping up with his brother's brisk pace,  **"that once** _ **he**_ **finally asks you to finish the job, you'll only be too happy to complete what you started the night you betrayed me. You're** _ **always**_ **too happy to please** _ **him.**_ **"**

Alex actually stopped in his tracks. He knew by now it was in his best interest not to allow what wasn't real to affect him too much—there was nothing he could do about it regardless of his reaction—but sometimes what his twin's reflection said cut too deeply to live by that rule.

Alex's fists clenched so tightly that he felt the tips of his nails digging painfully into his palms. "You...you know I would  _never_  do that," Alex whispered to the empty hall, breaking yet another of the rules that surrounded his interactions with the things existing only in his head. "Everything I've done has been for  _you_."

Albert's Reflection scoffed,  **"As if I would believe** _ **that**_ **."**

Alex took a deep breath, refocusing himself. He knew he'd never be able to convince this fragmented piece of his mind of the truth; a truth that was just as absolute as the pains it had caused him.  _'Besides, this time I'm going to do anything but please him.'_

 **"Oh?"**  inquired the actually curious hallucination.

Alex allowed a soft grin to tug at the corner of his lips.  _'He's going to be very, very disappointed in me, Brother.'_

Alex certainly wasn't wrong in that regard.

* * *

_June 25th, 1979; Umbrella Headquarters, Parisian Facility:_

The other two Wesker children had shown up around five am the Friday following his conversation with Sebastian accompanied by the mentors from their respective facilities. Alex had spent the past weeks watching and learning everything he could from them while he'd awaited the arrival of the U.S.S. Agents. They hadn't arrived until this morning; the day of the test.

There were three of them, all clad in full out company issue gear including the agency's signature gas masks. Alex didn't see much of a point to wearing them all the time. Sure they were in a facility where one of the wings was devoted entirely to research on the Tyrant Virus—the biomedical marvel that his brother had helped create in the Arklay Facility less than a year ago—but the risk of an outbreak was minute and T had never been airborne.

Maybe it was a desire for a sort of intimidation factor but Alex thought it made them look rather ridiculous rather than terrifying; like some sort of silly Halloween costume. He certainly was never going to wear one unless it was actually to prevent infection.

Alex glanced over toward the entrance to the simulation room—a giant multi-story section of the building roughly the size of a football stadium set up with moveable walls and floors resulting in an ever changing and evolving training ground equipped with obstacles and programed battle scenarios running from standard to wicked. Alex had been training on that course for years and was a big part of its development and perfection. There was less than a three point six two chance that he'd have any problems with the challenge in regard to the setting. Alex could easily milk that course to make himself seem like the most talented agent in this building.

Redirecting his hidden eyes over at the other two Wesker Children waiting to begin their own performances nearby, Alex briefly wondered if they were aware of his advantage.

He'd looked both of them up the same night Sebastian had announced that he'd be going up against two other experiments within Project W for the coveted spot on the U.S.S.. As expected, neither of them had very extensive files Most the subjects in Project W were kept quite secret however, when you had access to the head of the project's files, things got a little more detailed. In the end, despite its scarcity and vagueness, the information he'd found was helpful.

Both of them had trained in various sections of the information department, sported a variety of tantalizing skill sets, and had stints of varying length within the U.B.C.S..

The girl, Natalia Wesker—charge of Izabella Bershove, twenty three years old, five foot nine, one hundred and twenty five pounds, black hair, blue eyes—had spent most of her time training at the Caucasus Facility in Russian doing missions for a variety of undisclosed agencies. According to her file, her specialty was in espionage, reconnaissance and hand to hand combat; something his observations over the past few weeks had confirmed. She was built like a dancer and moved as gracefully on the training field as she did off it making her a sinister combination of deadly and alluring.

The boy, Richard Wesker—charge of Johnathan Roads, twenty eight years old, six foot four, two hundred pounds, brown hair, brown eyes—was less of a mystery. He'd been working out of one of the U.S. Facilities—not Raccoon—for the U.B.C.S. for about five years now. His primary skills lay in security and explosives and, built like a tank, his physical skills were not to be ignored. He had an impressive record to be sure, and looking at him, he had an air about him that clearly said he thought highly of himself.

Not that the girl was any less self assured, even more so in fact. She stood haughtily off to the side next to her accompanying mentor, nose quite literally turned up at everyone and everything around her. It was apparent she was used to getting everything she wanted and the coveted position with the U.S.S. was obviously something she deeply desired.

Alex briefly wondered how the look of rage would contort those doll-like features once she was denied her goal and the thought caused him to have to conceal a light chuckle behind his white gloved hand. The other two Wesker Children only glanced his way briefly at the noise and movement from behind their thick shades.

Dark sunglasses. They seemed to be a requirement when you were a Wesker Child. Alex assumed it had something to do with the treatment everyone in the program had already received as well as the head splitting surgery everyone but himself had been subjugated to. He got the headaches that all the others complained of, but much less frequently and they weren't nearly as severe. His primary reason for wearing the light, silver framed sunglasses was different from the therapeutic reasons why Richard wore his aviators and Natalia wore her Prada shades: anonymity.

Once they realized where the disturbance originated they quickly dismissed everything about their third competitor and returning to acting as they were God's greatest gift to this company and secretly sizing each other up.

To the two rather self absorbed egotists, Alex imagined he looked rather unimpressive, which was exactly how he wanted it.

His Tall lean build wasn't much when the untrained eye compared it to the stacked bulky muscles Richard was occasionally flexing or the goddess-like physique of Natalia with her shapely legs, long raven locks, and full breasts barely contained by her tight V-neck T-shirt. Both of them were extremely desirable in their own right and certainly were exemplary forms of the agents they had been trained from childhood to become.

Alex was unaffected by all of this. To him, it was just another fact; a statistic to be analyzed in order to win this game.

He'd been watching them and learning from everything he saw since the two showed up to train on the course in an effort to close the gap the years of training Alex had on it had created. Not an attainable possibility, but it had given Alex an excellent opportunity to discover just what made each of them tick. Unlike himself, they weren't holding anything back when they trained and attempted to conquer the facility's simulation room giving Alex more information than he could have ever wanted.

Richard Wesker was good, but he relied too heavily on his plans and the tools he used to accomplish them—a mixture of heavily customized explosives, some attached to mobile contraptions that served the duel purpose of securing past areas and showing him what was around the next corner before he blew it up. He adapted poorly and, though he could make a bomb out of almost anything, was built heavily enough to break anything he didn't blow up with his bare hands, and could hack every piece of equipment he came across, separated from his toys and thrown off the track of his original strategy, he struggled.

Alex had only seen this this particular setback occur once. While Richard was setting up a device to take out a sizable wall blocking his path (something the room's designers were less than thrilled over), the walls had suddenly shifted cutting him off from the giant duffel bag he always carried around with him and was, in Alex's opinion, one of the largest contributing factors to why he was so muscled in the first place. The results were far from satisfactory and Richard had made sure to never allow it to happen again.

Alex hadn't forgotten.

As to the other Wesker, Natalia was flashy; too flashy. She treated every challenge like it was a performance and herself the leading role who's every move was being watched by all. She was cocky and as far as Alex could see, she had every right to be. Her technique was a captivating blend of blades, mixed martial arts, showy acrobatics, and precision rifles. It was a flawless combination and she believed it with every fiber of her being.

As such, her weakness was not in her talents and skills or any lack there of, but rather in her personality. She was liable to become so self absorbed as to overlook crucial details she deemed insignificant in comparison to her "greatness." Not that that should hurt her too much here—Alex doubted that people skills were part of the selection process—but knowing your own weaknesses was one of the first steps in winning any game; a skill she was distinctly lacking in.

Alex remembered; remembered with every intention of turning such flaws against her.

All of this information he had gleaned ran through his mind as he prepared for the fight ahead of him, completely lost in his own world until, as if on some unheard cue, the member's of the U.S.S. suddenly walked over to the giant metal double doors in unison and gestured for the three recruits to follow them in.

Let the games begin.

Before Alex could move to join the others, Sebastian placed a soft but firm hand on his shoulder halting his progress. Alex remained perfectly still as his mentor leaned in and whispered in his ear, "make me proud, Child."

Alex smelled roses.

The hand released and Alex moved quickly away, nodding, even though he had no intention of doing any such thing at the moment.

Alex disappointed Wesker; he disappointed him severely.

* * *

_June 25th, 1979; Umbrella Headquarters, Parisian Facility:_

Alex flinched at the painful ferocity of the grip on his arm as Sebastian lead him away from the simulation room at a fast pace, his fingernails biting through the fabric of Alex's coat. He was absolutely livid. Alex had never seen him so angry and never towards him. It was...fascinating in its own right...and actually, rather terrifying.

 **"Do you think he'll kill you?"** inquired the smirking boy following them in the dark windows, his voice laced with amusement at the very thought.

No...Sebastian wouldn't kill him. The man would never lose control like that, not to mention, Alex was still quite useful even though he was obviously the last choice to join the U.S.S.. Alex winced again when the grip got tighter as Sebastian roughly steered him around a corner. But...judging by the thin line his mentor's lips were pressed into and the twitch of his left eyebrow, Alex would not walk away from this encounter unscathed. This was probably going to hurt.

Sebastian didn't speak until they were in his office and he'd practically thrown Alex down in his customary chair.

" _What_ ," the word was spat icily in the boy's face, "was  _that_ , Alex?" Sebastian's venomous glare was a palpable force as he glared down at his charge, forgoing sitting himself so as to better tower over the eighteen year old Wesker.

Alex was silent, considering his next move carefully. It wouldn't do to get himself severely injured—something Sebastian had made clear years ago he had no qualms doing. That would make his next play rather difficult to accomplish.

"Speak." commanded Sebastian just short of yelling.

"A failure to impress anyone," answered Alex quietly.

Sebastian's glare from behind the delicate frames deepened. "That...that is exactly what that was."

It was true. Despite his superior training, his personal molding by the head of the project, and his infinitely more vast knowledge of the course, Alex hadn't done anything even bordering on noteworthy during the test. Whereas the other Weskers' performances had been nothing short of remarkable, Alex's own run through the simulation—if one could even call it that—would most likely not even be remembered.

Natalia had spent most of her allotted time twisting her body into impossible positions as she danced her way through the obstacles, showing nigh unbelievable poise and accuracy. Richard had actually blown up a significant portion of the course and then muscled his way through the rest barehanded—not that there was much left—revealing both a expert level knowledge of computer programing and explosives as well as unprecedented physical strength.

The U.S.S. agents present were going to have a hell of a time picking between those two while Alex would be lucky to even be mentioned as a joke. The most promising Wesker present, hand picked by the head of the very project, had walked; literally. Alex had moved through the challenges without fault but without demonstrating even the slightest hint of his vast skill set. He'd done nothing impressive; given them nothing to remember him by. It was a failure in every sense of the word and the worse part was, he'd done it on purpose, something Sebastian was perfectly aware of.

Sebastian drummed his finger rapidly on the desk as he leaned over his charge. Never before had Alex been so grateful for the man's control. " _Why_?" the word was pure venom.

Alex took a deep breath and looked as steadily as possible into the man's eyes; stormy blue managing to withstand emerald acid. "I had other plans."

* * *

_June 25th, 1979; Umbrella Headquarters, Parisian Facility:_

Alex stood in the hallway outside the door bearing the golden letter's spelling out  _S. Wesker_ , his hand clutching his stinging face which was already starting to swell. He never recalled getting smacked across the face so hard in his life, but, compared with what Alex had been imagining and what his mentor's boiling green eyes had implied he'd  _deeply_  wanted to do to the eighteen year old, it was nothing. Perhaps Sebastian believed that if he really set in on his charge, that his current level of rage wouldn't allow him to stop before severe damage had been done. Regardless, the man's level of control was something to be admired and, in some rights, feared.

As of now, Alex had made Sebastian into a fool in front of some of the highest authorities within Umbrella's most successful facilities and inside the legendary U.S.S.. Alex had purposely allowed the head of Project W be beaten at his own game. The fact that he wasn't in a body bag was proof enough of the man's self power.

That aside, Alex knew his punishment was far from over. If he didn't fix things before Sebastian's self restraint broke—unlikely—or his mentor decided exactly how to make him pay, he was in for an excruciating world of pain.

Alex had no intention of letting that happen.

Alex smiled softly to himself despite the strong twinge such a gestured caused to his still throbbing face. They would be announcing the chosen Wesker child tomorrow evening shortly before departing France with said chosen new U.S.S. agent. He was sixty four point seven percent sure which of the Weskers would be picked at the meeting—not that it mattered much. There was only one outcome possible once everything was said and done. He had a lot of work to get done before the sun set the following day.

Sebastian wouldn't be disappointed in him much longer...either that or he'd be dead and it wouldn't matter anymore how the old snake felt about him.

* * *

_June 26th, 1979; Umbrella Headquarters, Parisian Facility:_

Getting into the Parisian Facility's main lab was hardly an issue for Alex as—on top of everything else that was crammed into his ever shifting schedule—he spent a good deal of his days working with the virus his twin had created in 1978 as one of the lab's head scientists.

Alex's primary interest in the Progenitor and Tyrant Virus was creating more... "practical" applications for their use. In other words, weaponizing them; a project he and many other scientifically minded individuals across Umbrella's infrastructure had been tasked with as soon as Doctor Marcus could be "convinced" to send out samples of Tyrant to the various facilities. So, getting into the lab and access to the various deadly strains of the viral agents wasn't the problem, it was removing them from the premises that was going to be the tricky part.

Every sample and viral container was intently monitored and obsessively controlled; as was necessary to prevent a devastating biohazard. Every researcher, including himself, had to check out each individual sample (a hectic task in and of itself), was under constant video and audio surveillance during the entire process of working with the viruses, and then needed to provide either proof of use and containment or disposal for every removed unit and subject infected. Not to mention, each scientist was searched thoroughly upon entering and leaving the labs.

It was basically an airtight system. Nothing had ever gone wrong in the lab; no spills, leaks, escaped test subjects, or missing viral samples.

There in lay the solution.

The Parisian lab was very good at preventing catastrophes but it was a virgin in dealing with them. As it was now, the only contingency plan should something go really wrong, was to lock down the entire facility and block all outgoing communication (so as to prevent panic outside the walls). An emergency biohazard alert would then go out to the nearest U.B.C.S. and U.S.S. agencies who would take over the situation from there including complete control of all internal decontamination measures.

The only way to communicate to anyone from inside the facility during such a crisis would be through the director's—Sebastian Wesker's—office via an access code only he possessed.

The system, unlike the preventative measures in the lab, was untested and loosely monitored at best. Proof of this was in the fact that Alex had already disabled the distress signal last night.

As it currently stood, should the biohazard countermeasures be activated, the facility would completely cut itself off from the outside world with no one beyond the building's walls being the wiser. Alex imagined he'd have between eight and twelve hours before any outside forces realized there was an issue—time only being that short because the three U.S.S. agents would be missed.

It was enough.

Alex waited until the meeting between the Umbrella Facility heads and the U.S.S. agents had started before he headed to the main laboratory. During this last meeting the three Wesker Children's mentors would have a final opportunity to present evidence to sway the selection their way. The trainees in question were  _not_  invited. Alex briefly wondered if Sebastian would do anything on his account; the man hated losing. Alex concealed a smirk as he briefly imagined Sebastian trying to hopelessly defend his lackluster performance and failing miserably.

For the first part of the day, everything in the research lab went as it usually did: Uneventful with Alex making further notes on a particularly deadly strain of Tyrant—T-597—he'd been working on for the past few months. It was a super concentrated strain that produced rapid, usually unpredictable, mutation of its hosts. The beauty in this strain was that, after a certain period of time—usually less than a sixty minutes—all subjects would essentially self destruct. Just as mutations from Progenitor became too extreme to support the life of its host, most infected perished within an hour of exposure.

Such qualities made it an ideal weapon for acute situations and limited the risk of unwanted spreading. It also made T-597 the perfect choice for his latest scheme.

He just had to get it out first.

The crash of the coiled vial placed precariously on the edge of an adjacent lab table drew the horrified eyes of everyone present to the blue stained liquid running over the previously immaculate white floor.

The reaction was so predictable it almost looked contrived.

After a few beats of silence and suspended movement the entire room turned to panic induced chaos. There was a mad rush for the doors and the decontamination chambers accompanied by a cacophony of screams, shouts, and several blaring alarms.

Alex grinned, pocketing the small vial and attached syringe within his breast pocket before moving to join the others. No one was following procedure in their frantic attempts to get out nor did they pay any mind to the additional siren joining the blaring of the others that warned of an unauthorized virus passing through the laboratory doors. Such fringe science scanners were only as good as the people who used them. Actually, the only hard part about getting out was ensuring not to get jostled too much. It would really not due to get himself infected because a crowd of clamoring idiots couldn't stop shoving.

Once out in the hallway it was clear the disorder wasn't going to last much longer. Heads of the security and the science division were rapidly trying to regain order—something he, as one of the lab's directors, should have been assisting with rather than perpetuating—meaning his diversion wasn't going to hold for much longer.

Alex hastily discarded his lab coat and expertly slipped away from the congregation of frightened scientists all trying to get into the decontamination chambers. It was sad really, how much panic could be induced by some broken glass and a little bit of blue food dye.

Once Alex had vacated the immediate danger zone he didn't slow down. Now that people of authority were present it was only a matter of time before they discovered the "outbreak" was a false alarm and recognize the danger being wailed by the real one. A missing sample meant the complete lock down of the facility and, while that was his intention, getting himself locked inside would do him no good; in fact, it would cause him quite a bit of harm.

Though he was moving quickly down the halls, navigating their twists and turns with experience, he was reminded how large the facility was and how long it took to escape it.

He had made it to the front entrance and could see his escape rout when he heard the thundering sound of the facility wide alarm followed by an ironically calm, heavily accented voice informing everyone inside of the dire situation at hand.

_"Attention, a Class Two Biohazard is in effect. The facility will be locked down to prevent further damage. Please stay calm. All non essential staff are to return to their quarters immediately. Please report any suspicious behavior to your superiors...Attention..."_

Alex was outside before the warning had started to repeat itself in French, pushing past the very unlucky woman who had chosen this inopportune moment to visit Umbrella's European Headquarters in the process.

In a rare bout of childishness, Alex turned around and waved happily at the disgruntled woman trying to catch her balance and highly confused guard manning the security station. By the time they had figured out what was going on, the heavy metal doors had come down sealing the facility, the communication jamming system had come online, and it was far too late to stop Alex Wesker.

* * *

_June 26th, 1979; Umbrella Headquarters, Parisian Facility:_

Irene Hawke wasn't the kind of person to put up with shenanigans, short comings, failures, or the excuses that usually followed them, like files trailing a dying animal. Forty two, with a strong build, black hair pulled back in an impossibly tight bun, pricing silver eyes, and sharp features worthy of her name marked with lines of experience and from glaring too much, Hawke was a no nonsense kind of woman, though no one dared to call her by such a cliché term. In fact, most would be happy if they never had to interact directly with her for fear of the situation and following consequences that would require them to turn up at her door.

Such fear and respect had been hard earned by the icy woman. Through a combination of blood, sweat, pain, and unyielding determination, Irene had worked her way up to one of the most prestigious positions within Umbrella's Security Service as Alpha Team's handler. All assignments, missions, and coordination came directly from her to the agency's most skilled group of men and woman. With a level nine clearance, she had ties to the most powerful individuals within the company, knew some of Lord Spencer's darkest secrets, and was the direct link between those that had created Umbrella and the U.S.S..

Standing in the Parisian Facility, Umbrella's European  _Headquarters_ , she was far from impressed. Since the moment she'd walked in and seconds later been locked in the building, she could see that things here were in a state of disaster she could not abide by. Hawke had expected so much more from Sebastian Wesker and his so called child protegees. Lord Spencer himself had given the direct orders for this "Project W" but it was already trying her thin patience.

Wasting no more time, Irene swept past the guard ignoring his unintelligent prattle and set off towards Wesker's office, her high heels clicking impatiently off the marble flooring.

* * *

_June 26th, 1979; Umbrella Headquarters, Parisian Facility:_

By the time the biohazard alarms started blaring, Sebastian was already nearing his rope's end. As the director of the facility he'd been immediately informed of the "outbreak" in the lab. This development, while less than pleasing wasn't dire. It was only a matter of time before one of those fools in the lab dropped something and he'd been assured that the incident was completely contained and would be dealt within the hour.

That annoyance aside, Sebastian had turned back to the real reason he was so pissed off in the first place: The meeting to decide which of his two unchosen, unworthy "children" would be selected for the position Alex was supposed to be a shoe in for.

Then things had gotten...interesting.

Shortly after the alarms started blaring  _again_  Sebastian was informed that, not only was his facility on total lock down, but that the man responsible for everything from the faked lab spill to the current state of affairs was none other than his chosen favorite: Alex Wesker.

Sebastian forced himself to keep his cool as he listened to the stuttered words by the head of the facility's science division, an unremarkable man from his plain features and simple brown hair to his name which Sebastian hadn't even bothered to remember.

"So you are telling me," started Sebastian at length, keeping his voice down so that no one in the meeting room behind them could possibly overhear their rather damning conversation through the think oak door, "that our entire facility had been locked down due to a threat that is not even present anymore and that a virus from this lab is out on the streets which we are powerless to do anything about?"

The man nodded nervously.

Sebastian too a deep breath before slowly removing his spectacles and making a show of cleaning them; something he would do in replacement of most people's counting to ten. "What did he steal?" he asked, his voice completely void of any emotion.

The man frantically began sorting through reports, dropping a few in the process of retrieving the proper forms for his boss. "Um...according to our records he...ah... Oh here it is."

Sebastian glared at his lack of organization, replacing his glasses. "Please...take your time..." The message behind those clipped words was the exact opposite.

The scientist swallowed hard before continuing. "A sample of T-597."

Sebastian raised an eyebrow. "I'm afraid, as I am a doctor of psychiatry, you'll have to do more than a name."

O-of course. It's a variant strain of Tyrant, Alex...uh the suspect was working on. It's um...a highly mutagenic strain that more closely mimics the effects of the mother virus, Progenitor, rather than the reanimation of Tyrant."

"I see...is it as infective?"

"Technically. It's transferred through blood to blood contact or other body fluids just like the others but, due to the short lifespan of hosts—just under and hour—the lack of reanimation, and the inability of the virus to survive outside a living body for long, it's significantly less likely to cause a massive outbreak than Tyrant."

The man took a breath. "However, the damage just one subject could cause in that short amount of time...especially if it was seen by the public or, God forbid, the press, would be catastrophic to the company."

"Obviously," muttered Sebastian. "How much did he take?"

"We're still double checking our stores, but according to the video footage from his station, just enough for one...maybe two doses."

Sebastian was silent, considering the situation before him. It didn't make any sense. Why would Alex steal a sample of the virus? Did he have a buyer? Unlikely. Alex had no interest in money, his only concern was his brother and defecting put Albert in more danger than Alex would ever allow. Not to mention, this particular strain didn't seem like a very lucrative investment. It's not like he would be trying to escape either. Alex didn't attempt things that were statistically not in his favor.

"Sir," ventured the man cautiously—very cautiously. "Shouldn't you use the emergency contact system? The U.S.S. hasn't made contact yet which is strange considering the distress signal should have gone out by now. They need to know what the real threat is before too much damage is done."

"Agreed, Doctor Wesker," came a stern voice from behind him causing them both to turn. "This fiasco needs to end.  _Now_."

Sebastian forced a smile on his lips even though  _her_  presence was the last thing he needed at the moment. "Agent Hawke... I had no idea you were here. To what do we owe the pleasure?"

"Do you really think now is the time for this?" she glared. "From what I just heard you have a deadly virus unaccounted for being transferred to God only knows where by your own charge—I saw him leaving right as I entered the facility," she responded to the yet unspoken question. "He waved."

Sebastian glared. Alex was still actively making a fool out of him and he still had no idea as to why. "That still doesn't answer the question in regards to why you are in the middle of this mess."

"I came by to have the final word on who the new member was going to be. I wasn't even thinking of your Alex until a few moments ago. I don't suppose you have an explanation for his most recent...behavior."

Her words were stinging and at this point Sebastian had had enough of whatever game was being played at his personal expense. "No," came his icy reply.

"I see."

She was about to continue when the door to the meeting room burst open. Both the facility heads looked highly disconcerted with something more than just the implications of the alarms. Bershove's usually smugly strong features were contorted in rage and even some of her usually tightly braided blond hair had flown out of place. Roads looked more confused than anything else but the ruddy color of his thick face was an indication that he wasn't very happy about it.

"I demand to know why  _that_  is on the screen, Sebastian!" the Caucasus woman, practically shrieked.

Her complaint was followed by the booming voice of Richard Wesker's mentor, Roads. "Just what kind of sick game are you playing at?"

Sebastian blinked at both of them in a perplexed fashion from behind his silver frames. "I'm afraid I have no idea what the two of you are talking about. If it's the biohazard- "

"Sir," spoke one of the U.S.S. agents who had tried to keep the two irate directors in the room. His voice was muffled by the customary gas mask that seemed slightly more appropriate than it had yesterday. "I believe they are referring to what came up on the projector a few moments ago."

"Ma'am," all three agents nodded their covered heads to Hawke before leading an intrigued Sebastian and their superior into the rather lavish meeting room tailed doggedly by the two directors.

All present turned their attention to the expensive screen located on the far end of the room set before a large wooden table surrounded by rolling chairs that took up the majority of the space.

Sebastian regarded the two displayed images in place of the typical Umbrella screen saver trying to understand what about them had the directors in more of a tizzy than the continuing alarm. "And what exactly am I supposed to be looking at?" questioned Sebastian, more annoyed than anything else at this point.

"Sir, those are the places of residence of the other two Wesker Children; where they were staying for the duration of the testing," clarified the second black riot gear clad U.S.S. agent. "If you will." He then lead the group over to the computer desk set up in the back corner of the room from which the screens were controlled. "As you can see," he pointed to the secondary monitor depicting a plethora of tiny video boxes, "access to the feed from all the cameras set up in both houses was just given to this room," explained the agent.

"Well?" questioned Bershove intently. It was amazing how much of her thick accent could come through in just one syllable.

_"I had other plans."_

Suddenly it all clicked in Sebastian's mind and he had to actually fight to hold down a grin. Alex wasn't running nor was he defecting. The boy was still following his orders, though with quite a bit of creative license. If he was right, and Sebastian was quite sure he was, this was nothing short of the brilliance he'd come to expect out of the boy. All he had to do was sit back and watch.

"Wesker!"

Oh, and keep these idiots from interfering. Roads looked about ready to hit him.

"I'm afraid I am at a loss to answer your questions," lied Sebastian smoothly, "as I have absolutely nothing to do with this. My personal opinion is that this is the doing of the same person who initiated the false alarm in the lab downstairs and used it to transport an small sample of Tyrant off the facility."

"No shit?" exclaimed a shocked Roads.

"And we know who this culprit is, yes?" inquired Bershove much more calmly than before.

"Affirmative," answered Hawke, eying Sebastian a little suspiciously. She had not expected him to bring the other directors up to speed without a fight. "We know with certainty that it was Alex Wesker."

Roads scoffed. "After what we saw yesterday you really expect me to believe that that brat had the skill to do all this?"

"He was holding back," informed Sebastian coolly. "I admit his lackluster performance surprised me. The boy is easily capable of this and more."

Bershove's eyes lit up like a predator who had sighted its prey. "And you want us to believe you had not to do with this, Wesker? He is your charge after all, no?" pointed out Bershove suspiciously.

She had never really liked Sebastian much. Not that he had many fans throughout Umbrella to begin with, but she had a special kind of hate for the man.

"Why would I steal from my own facility, jeopardize my position as the head of the project you are all to happy to reap the benefits from, and lock myself in here?" He raised an eyebrow. "It hardly seems as if I'd benefit from such a move."

"Wait, we're locked in? Even though we know the outbreak isn't here?" quested Roads incredulously.

"Yes..." sighed Sebastian not wanting to go into details right now. "It's all rather complicated but that is the gist of it."

Roads glare showed he hadn't missed the shot at his intelligence.

"Why or how Alex did this is not important right now," Hawke said heatedly preventing Roads from saying anything else. What  _is_  important is that we stop this train wreck before it gets any worse. As I understand it you have a way around this communications block?" She asked, turning to the scientist who had hoped he'd been forgotten.

"Why the hell are they blocked in the first place?" huffed Roads who had already tried both his and the room's phone to no avail.

"In an effort to prevent the leak of information during a possible outbreak and limit the spread of panic," explained Sebastian smoothly. "And as to your question, Ms Hawke, he doesn't, but I do." All eyes on him, he continued. "In the case of an emergency, I alone have access to an emergency line directly to the U.S.S.."

Hawke nodded. "So you can coordinate with them to bring Alex in?"

Sebastian nodded. "And with a personal statement from you I'm sure they will see fit to cease the lock down as there is no internal biological threat.

"Alright than, let's go," she agreed shortly.

Sebastian nodded and lead the group to his office—minus Dr. Franks who was happy to be informed that his job was done and he was free to go sort out the mess in the labs and one of the U.S.S. agents who was left to monitor the live video feeds.

Sebastian's office was surprising plain and completely devoid of any personal items. It looked pretty much like the basic office setup of any Umbrella higher up: White walls covered with pictures of the three founder's and other such Umbrella propaganda, a white carpeted floor with the faded company design dyed "subtly" into the fabric.

The center of the room was taken up by a huge silver desk topped with piles of neatly organized documents and large computer monitor also sporting the Umbrella logo with two chairs set up on either side. One, a large comfortable office chair that looked like the only piece Sebastian had added and the other a plain metal chair where Alex usually sat.  
There was a large window on the west wall that would have offered a beautiful view of Paris had it not been covered completely by the thick metal that had been drawn automatically over every window and exit in the facility making the harsh artificial light the only form of illumination available.

Once the group had arrived at their destination, Sebastian opened a large cabinet placed between a multitude of tall thin filing cabinets taking up the east wall. Inside housed a huge blank screen, two black boxes supporting a variety of nobs, buttons, and wires, a headset with a build in mic, and a keyboard that protruded at about wast height once the doors were opened.

"This will only take a moment," assured Sebastian as he began the task of turning the massive machine on.

Everything was going smoothly until, several minutes later Sebastian was prompted to put in the device's twenty digit password and a giant error message popped up on the screen.

"Strange...must have mistyped it" he muttered before purposely putting in the wrong code for a second time. He played this game thrice more for good measure each time acting more frustrated gauging the similar but genuine reactions of those crowded uncomfortably around him.

Finally he stood up, adjusting his glasses. "It would appear that the code has been changed."

"Meaning what?" asked Hawke icily, her foot tapping on the carpeted floor.

"Meaning that someone, besides myself accessed the machine and changed it. This would in turn mean that I have no way to communicate with anyone outside the building."

"Shit..." muttered Roads, running a hand over his gruff features and then again through his close cropped dark brown hair. "Can't you change it back?"

Sebastian scoffed. "Not without either considerable hacking skills—which I do not possess—or knowledge of the current pass code.

"Did Alex Wesker have access to either," asked Hawke unemotionally.

Sebastian pretended to consider the question. "It is conceivable considering his training and the way he's already breached the electrical security at the other children's houses that he may have hacked it, but I would find it hard to believe the latter."

"And I find it hard to believe you are not behind all of it!" shouted the Russian woman, her angry blue eyes locking with Sebastian's. "I cannot imagine you were happy with the results of yesterday's match, no? This gives you motive! But than you tell us that your Alex held back. Why would a child do this unless its guardian tells it so?"

Sebastian laughed. "Again, I fail to see what any of this would gain me."

"You have your boy kill the other's. This leaves yours as only choice, yes?"

_Clever girl._

Sebastian shook his head. "Absurd. Don't you think if Alex had the ability to do all that I would have just had him win the original competition instead of going to all this trouble? Regardless, I suppose you have no choice but to trust what I say is true."

"We could torture the truth from him," she answered darkly.

This only resulted in a role of his eyes. "You would torture someone with level ten clearance? Someone who works directly under Lord Spencer? I'd hate to see what befell you when this was all said and done."

Bershove fell silent for a moment. "Level ten?"

Hawke nodded through gritted teeth. "Project W is Lord Spencer's personal little...experiment therefore giving Wesker the same clearance he has in  _some_  areas." She turned her pale silver eyes on Sebastian. "However, you are aware that  _if_  you have anything to do with this and something...'bad' happens because of it, that clearance won't get you very far."

Sebastian's smile never faltered. "I am aware of the situation."

"Look," broke in Roads, "this is all completely pointless; us just standing around arguing. Shouldn't we be focused on busting out of here and fixing the problem?"

"Well that would be the logical answer, if it was a possibility." Sebastian gestured to the darkened window. "Every exit—door, vent, window—has been sealed with three inch titanium plates. We'd have better luck breaking down the stone walls." He grinned. "I don't suppose your protegee left any of his explosives behind."

"N-no but if I had access to the lab maybe I could mix something together-"

"Sealed tighter than the building," said Sebastian cutting him off. "As of now, our only choice is to sit and wait. With Ms Hawke being here it is only a matter of time before someone notices her missing presence and sends someone to investigate."

Any protesting to the contrary was halted by the U.S.S. agent they'd left in the meeting room quickly entering Sebastian's office. "I think you're all going to want to see this..."

* * *

_June 26th, 1979; Paris, France:_

Alex would give Richard Wesker one thing, security was certainly tight, not that he'd expect anything less from the technology dependent Wesker. Project W in and of itself had a way of making surviving subjects paranoid and killing off those that weren't inherently cautious; a mistake Richard could not be accused of making.

The place looked like fort knocks. Most if not all the windows were constructed of bullet proof glass—he could tell by the way the light interacted with them. There were rotating cameras around every angle of the perimeter fence, around the house, and even within the structure. Alex grimly noted some of the boy's famous moveable weapons attached strategically to the cameras around every possible entrance point. In this particular case, they appeared to be turret guns whose feed of bullets was probably located behind the walls they were set into. On top of all of that, the place was surrounded by an eight foot tall, razor wire topped fence complete with a rot iron gate. Then there were the several sporadically placed, small circular areas were the dirt was disturbed and the ground slightly upraised—he was guessing land mines. Oh and did he mention the large chain link kennel located on the structure's west wall housing some of the meanest, largest dogs he'd ever seen?

This was not going to be a walk in the park...far from it. Alex wondered if part of the reason behind all this security was that Richard was aware of what would happen to the two remaining, unchosen Wesker children. It was supposed to be secret, but Alex knew. It stood to reason that the other two would as well and like him, wouldn't go down without a fight.

Alex smirked, lowering the scope of the rifle he'd been using to observe the house. This was going to be one of the most difficult things Alex had done in his life. Good, there wouldn't be a point if it was easy.

 **"So this is your grand scheme than?"** sighed the hallucination who, through the glass illusion if the side window, looked as though he was sitting in the passenger seat of the Umbrella SUV Alex had stolen from the company parking garage.

"Yes," responded Alex as he moved to the back of the vehicle.

Albert's Reflection let out an agonized breath. He disappeared when Alex opened the back and removed the reflective surface between them, revealing that the car was indeed empty of another passenger.  **"And here I thought—even if it was only for a moment—that you'd actually grown a pair,"**  he lamented from above, shaking his head in disappointment in the glass now above Alex's head.  **"But here you are, off your leash and still acting like** _ **his**_ **attack dog."**

Alex ignored him, instead busying himself with stowing away his military grade precision rifle in its case. Alex then let his gaze roam over the sizable selection of weapons he'd prepared for this mission, deciding which would be of most use to him in the upcoming "test."

**"You're pathetic you know? Sickening in fact."**

Still wisely choosing to avoid conversation with his twisted doppelganger, Alex began selecting his arsenal: Two golden Colt M1911A1s with three extra clips each, his favorite combat knife with a white pearl grip, three flash grenades, and one hand grenade—just in case.

 _That should be adequate,_  he though with a nod.

 **"I hope that oaf rips your arms and legs off so you can adequately portray the serpent you are,"**  growled Albert's Reflection before disappearing.

* * *

_June 26th, 1979; Umbrella Safe House 001, Paris, France:_

The resounding crash shook Alex to the core as the black SUV smashed through Richard Wesker's fence and subsequently flipped when its tires were ripped open by the spike strips that activated seconds later. Pain ripped its way through Alex's body as he was treated like a rag doll strapped firmly to the erratically flipping vehicle, his world spinning violently and uncontrollably. All of his senses were on fire by the time the car had come to a rest.

Due to his daze resulting from the unexpected roll that left the vehicle looking more like a tin can, teetering on its roof while the tires spun uselessly in the air, Alex didn't really comprehend the first burst of bullets whizzing past him and embedding themselves in the passenger seat, but as soon as he did, he  _moved_.

Thankfully, the seat belt wasn't stuck and with a single press Alex was free, falling hard onto the SUV's ceiling inducing a whole new burst of pain. The glass from the broken windows dug into his upper back, forearms, and hands as he struggled for traction, his feet and legs trapped uselessly above him, hindering his progress. Twisting towards the door he found it to be a totally different case from the seat belt. It had been too damaged in the crash to budge. Unwilling to panic but urged on by the rapid hail of bullets getting closer to his side of the vehicle, Alex yanked his left arm out from under him, freed one of his twin pistols from where it was trapped between his side and the seat, and fired three shots shattering the driver side window.

Alex yanked himself out onto the rough cobblestone drive, vacating the car just as lead ripped through the back of leather seat where he'd just been.

Pulling himself into a crouched position with his back pressed to the back driver side door and as far away from the shower of bullets as possible, Alex drew his other gun and began to collect his bearings.

After the vehicle had hit the spike strips Alex had noticed far too late, it had flipped and rolled ending up with its right side parallel to the house and the deadly mounted guns that were tearing into the car whose only current purpose was now a shield. Lucky for him; if the car had landed any other way, he probably would have been dead right now.

His injuries didn't seem too severe. Not that he didn't hurt. Various body parts were competing with one another in their quest to send shots of white hot pain directly to his brain. They had to be ignored. He wasn't dead and it seemed like he could move everything properly. Allow such distraction to dull his mind could change both of those facts in an instant.

Not that his current position was very pro-life. There was only so much lead the engine block could take. If those guns kept firing the car would likely explode taking him with it and his game would be prematurely ended.

Taking better stock of his surrounding, Alex noticed there was a small brick wall about ten yards to his left that might be able to serve as a replacement shield. The question was, could he outrun the turret guns?

Alex was calculating his chances while searching for more viable options when the gun fire suddenly stopped leaving the yard in an eery silence—well, aside from the incessant baying of the monstrous dogs as they jumped frantically against the kennel doors, eager to rip the flesh from his body.

Alex was puzzled. The other Wesker child had him in check. Why would he back down now? It was obvious that Alex had come crashing in to do him harm not trade pleasantries by his manner of entry and it was very unlikely that Richard had been fooled into believing him dead. From what Alex saw in the simulation chamber, this Wesker Child didn't stop until whatever he was fighting had been blown into several thousand pieces.

Suddenly it clicked.

Alex aimed his pistols at one of the mines located on the opposite end of the enclosure and fired off a round to test his theory.

With a mighty bang the device exploded, sending up a flurry of dirt, rocks, and grass over twenty feet into the air.

Immediately, the guns that had been focused at the hole ridden Umbrella SUV had moved and were firing a barrage of lead at the smoking crater and falling rubble.

The guns were automated, responding to movement, sound, or both. ...Probably just movement. The caged dogs that were obviously outside the turrets' range weren't triggering any sort of response from the guns with their menacing barks.

This development made Alex's situation a lot less bleak but still pressing. If he didn't figure out a way to trick the guns and get into the house quickly, the man behind the machines would no doubt send something a lot less automated and much more personal to dispatch the intruder.

All of this raced through Alex's mind as he counted off the seconds the turrets were distracted with the explosion he'd just caused. Three, maybe four seconds at most.  _Perhaps_ enough time to make it to the wall but not near long enough to get to the house either from his current position or from his chosen midway point. Looking around there wasn't much else in the way of cover either, not to mention such a path would take him directly through a minefield where one false step could easily end him.

Unsure of his next move but certain that a maximum amount of knowledge of the programed guns would be required to succeed Alex shot off both his guns in opposite directions.

The result was pretty much what he expected. Some of the guns fired at the flash of the first shot while the other targeted the second. However, when Alex repeated the experiment, firing a normal shot and then hitting a second landmine with the other, all the guns targeted the bigger movement.

So, a distraction method would work, but could he hit enough mines on the way over to keep himself from becoming riddled with holes?

Possible, but risky,  _very_ risky. The success level, even with his accuracy was less than six percent.

Wicked laughter from the cracked window of his current cover momentary distracted Alex from his escape plans.

 **"Look at you!"**  mocked the face distorted nigh demonically by the damage done to the glass.  **"You're like a dog in a trap, trying desperately to gnaw its own leg off before the hunter comes to end its miserable existence. Is this really how you are going to** _ **die**_ **, brother?"**

Alex steeled himself. Dieing here or anywhere else wasn't an option. He wasn't just fighting for himself and his own survival. He was fighting for his brother's even if the twisted reflection could never accept that. And to die as a caged animal; a dog-

Alex froze, eyes darting over to the trapped mongrels. From what he'd gathered on his preliminary scan there were at least eight of them; count in all the landmines they'd hit...

Redirecting his aim Alex took a few shots at the kennel gate's latches. Moments later the attack dogs were free and racing their way towards him, hackles raised, teeth bared, mindless of the bullets and explosives that would soon end them in their single minded blood lust for the white clad intruder.

Alex waited until he heard the first gun shots before he bolted around the flipped car and pounded up the stone drive far away from any landmines, ignoring the sharp pain shooting up from, the until now, rather large gash on his left knee with every stride. The sounds agony laced yips and pitiful howls of pain as bullets and shrapnel ripped through fur, sinew, and bone accompanied Alex as he sprinted for the door.

A feral grin found its way onto his face. He really hoped Richard loved those screaming mongrels.

He was within throwing distance of the door when he pulled the pin and hurled the grenade. He didn't want to deal with any more surprises or traps separating him and his escape from the turret guns. Perhaps it was unwarranted, but it sure made for one hell of an entrance as he skidded through the smoke and rubble finally out of range of Richard's nasty outdoor security system.

Seeing as nothing inside the large two story house tried to immediately kill him, Alex decided that this was a significant improvement.

Once Alex was sure standing here put him in no current danger, he holstered his guns took the time to dust himself off and finally take stock of the injuries he'd received. Aside from the few non-serious lacerations to his arms and legs, the slightly larger and deeper, but still non-fatal wound over his left knee and shin, and the large bump he'd received on his forehead during the crash, he was fine. His shoulder ached significantly where the seat belt had dug in but none of this was pain he couldn't work past.

Looking up from his own blood and dirt flecked form, Alex cast his eyes around the house. The room he was standing in was of significant size, but much smaller than he was used to. To his left he could see the dining room and attached kitchen. To his right was the moderately furnished living room whose circularly arranged couches, coffee table and entertainment system were covered in dust from the blast. In front of him was the main staircase leading up to the second floor whose basic layout he could see through the railing surrounding the landing.

The decorations were simple but in no way lacking. This may have been downscale in comparison to Umbrella's usual grandeur, but the company could never be called poor in anything it did—except perhaps in the "abandoned" dilapidated shack covering the entrance to the facility located in the Nevada desert.

Before he moved forward Alex mentally scanned the schematics of the safe house he'd reviewed before leaving the facility. Sure they couldn't tell him about the traps and extra security his target had installed, but it was still useful information. There were two likely places the Wesker Child could be. One was the "panic room" a sort of safe zone located in the basement that anyone holed up in this particular house was supposed to relocate to in case of an emergency—which this certainly was. The other possibility was the security control room where his target more than likely was hiding. Richard would feel much safer in control of his elaborate security system than he would behind several feet of steel that Alex would actually have a hell of a time getting through.

His mistake.

The control room was located on the second floor at the end of a short hallway to the right of the landing. The only hard part would be getting past any subsequent traps left by the mechanically minded Wesker.

Once again removing his guns, Alex moved carefully towards the staircase. He had to admit he was surprised when he didn't notice anything odd about the wooden steps. This was the only way to the upper story of the house; a sort of bottle neck. If Richard wanted to lay a trap, this would be the place to do it.

Moving cautiously, Alex advanced up the stairs, keeping to the far right, steering clear of the railing, and skipping every other step—logic had it that if there were some sort of pressure plate or trigger device it would be in the center of a step or on the railing and skipping every other stair cut his chances of triggering something in half.

Despite his extra precautions, a few steps away from the top he felt something beneath him shift and suddenly all the steps receded, turning the ground beneath him into a sort of slide. The change knocked Alex off his feet, slammed his upper body onto the now flat surface beneath him, and sent him hurtling towards a set of spikes jutting out perpendicular to the incline that had appeared out of the floor at the base of what used to be the stairs.

His reflexes saved him two feet away from becoming impaled, hands catching hold of the railing at the last second; a maneuver that lost him both his guns in the process.

Alex watched in dismay as the silver and gold pistols clinked down the rest of what was left of the stairs and fell among the jagged twelve inch long barbs.

 _That_  was not good...

Grunting in both annoyance and effort, Alex began hauling himself up the staircase in a spider-like fashion; his stomach pressed to the wooden surface beneath him, arms and legs moving from rail to rail as he pulled his way up.

Once he'd reached the top and pulled out his only remaining weapon aside from his grenades Alex had to stop himself from letting out a aggravated sigh. The entire floor up here was a series of laser based tripwires only barely visible because of the large amount of dust still circulating thanks to his earlier grenade blast and all the mines that had gone off. One false step and, through he wasn't sure what he'd cause to go off, he knew it wouldn't be good. It was probably bad enough that he wouldn't live to regret doing it.

But why play that game? Alex had had enough of those.

Alex backed up towards the stairs as far as he dared and, replacing his combat knife, he removed one of his three flash bangs, fully intending to toss it into the laser web and get whatever explosion that was likely to ensue over with.

Suddenly his wispy targets vanished. Alex froze in confusion that only lasted the seconds until he heard the click of a shotgun being pumped and looked up to see the hulking form of Richard Wesker striding quickly towards him.

Alex tossed the already unpinned grenade and did a ducking run that turned into a roll towards the empty hall behind him as the blast from both weapons went off.

The combination saved him, but barely so. The wall above him exploded into a holey mess of falling plaster as the pellets embedded themselves deeply within it.

Dazed by the blast and probably very intimidated by the fact that Alex had survived everything he'd thrown at him, Richard made a run for it, vaulting over the landing's railing, and then sprinted through the living room towards what Alex knew was the garage.

Another complication. Alex was getting  _very_  tired of this.

He was about to give chase, but he really didn't like the odds he had with two flash bangs and a combat knife against an uninjured man twice his size with a pump action shotgun. And anyways, a  _much_ better idea had just occurred to him.

Alex gave one final look over the railing before sprinting back towards the room Richard had just vacated.

About what he'd expected. The room looked like something out of a science fiction movie. Screens and gigantic monitors covered most the walls, filling the almost unbearably warm room with electronic humming. It took Alex only moments to locate the main terminal.

Shoving the chair out of the way, he tapped the enter key a few times bringing up the system's primary programing. Of course it was password encrypted, but he had just hacked the main facility's most advanced security system. Using the same technique, he wouldn't have any problems. Once Alex had hooked up the strange handheld device he had stowed in the breast pocket of his tailcoat that most would have gawked at via the floppy disk drive, the system was breached in no time. This gave Alex access to and control of every weapon that had just been used against him.

He grinned wickedly. What a perfect way to end their twisted little game.

Alex scanned through the camera angles until he had located his target. The twenty eight year old was practically leaping into the driver seat of his vehicle, a jeep which looked more military grade than civilian. It seemed like he was planning on ditching this deathtrap.

As Alex activated every security system Richard had just turned off, he wondered in sick amusement how the man running for his life would fare against the very tools he'd invented to keep him safe.

It was beautiful to watch.

The blast of bullets tore into the passenger side of the jeep the second it squealed out of the garage. The event shocked Richard so much he swerved off the drive, skidded over the bloody mess that was all that was left of his beloved dogs and slammed over a landmine. The blast sent the jeep about two stories into the air before it crashed down on its roof and skidded to a halt only after ramming into the fence. What was left of the crumpled vehicle was then assaulted by another barrage of gunfire, this time pouring through the diver's side of the windshield.

Satisfied that he was dead or at least not going anywhere, Alex shutdown Richard's security system for the final time but not before the last bullet had ripped through a frantic dove startled by the cacophony of explosions and foolish enough to fly into the the war zone. The burst of white feathers now littering the crumpled car and sticking to the red blood covering the lawn was somehow very appealing to the victorious Wesker.

"I believe that was checkmate," he declared softly to the empty room.

The computers just went on buzzing, uncaring that they had just been turned against their master.

Alex took his time walking down the hallway and jumping smoothly over the balcony. He then delicately retrieved his dropped guns from their razor sharp prison and returned them to their holsters. Walking out through what was left of the front door, Alex moved lazily down the drive towards Richard's murder scene. He had to admit, the feathers from the bird looked even nicer off camera; it was a perfect finishing touch.

A quiet moan from the wreckage alerted Alex that the other Wesker wasn't completely dead yet.

A little more cautiously now, Alex walked over to the remaining smoking mess that was leaking more than engine fluid. A steady flow of deep crimson had begun to soak the grass.

Once he'd reached the vehicle that had, like his own, ended up on its top, Alex knelt down, aiming his gun in a rather pointless gesture at the Wesker Child's mangled form.

Richard was barely recognizable, his once magnificent muscles burned and embedded with shrapnel from his mangled car including a piece of the jeep's frame which had impaled itself into his chest and lower abdomen both trapping him and creating a ragged painful hole that was quickly spilling his life down over his severely burned face and onto the roof of the vehicle where the sticky red pool was overflowing onto the wet ground. The bones in his right arm were sticking through where it was bent backwards at the elbow; the mangled arm hanging down in a useless gesture above his bullet ridden body. The man's left eye had been completely obliterated. Everywhere where Richard Wesker was leaking red was speckled with quickly staining white feathers that were being toyed with by the light wind.

The sight that would have sickened most to the point of vomiting only cause Alex to grin and let out a chuckle.

Richard shakily turned his mangled neck to look at the grinning devil above him. "I guess," Richard coughed and sputtered, choking on his own blood, both internally and from the steady stream falling from his chest into his nose and mouth, "...y-you got...me." More coughing. "W-why? Why didn't you just..." his breathing became erratic, "...w-win...w-hy...th...is...?"

"Hmm..." Alex seemed to consider it. "Not that it matters since you were doomed either way but...this was more fun I suppose."

What was probably supposed to be a laugh erupted from his ruined throat. "Y-you're...sick..."

Alex chuckled darkly, his grin widening.  _Aren't we all?_ "And you're dead."

A few sputtering desperate breaths later Alex was proved right. It was fascinating, watching someone die. He'd never done it before; never taken a life; not a human one anyway. The way their eyes started to cloud over; the way fear gripped their entire body as it shook, fighting until the last of the violent death rattle shook the life from them; the terror that had gripped Richard's final moments, his eyes locked with Alex's, and knowing that  _he_ was the one causing such a visceral reaction...it was intoxicating.

The power rush was so all encompassing that Alex had to collapse against the side of the wreck to keep from falling over into the blood, his breathing coming fast and erratic, hand moving up to hold his head after ripping the silver glasses from his face. He didn't even know he was laughing manically until it left him gasping for air.

God he  _loved_  this.

Out of the corner of his eye he saw his brother appear in the fragments of glass that remained in the windows. For the first time since its appearance, Albert's Reflection didn't say anything, just stared at the broken, wicked, wreck that had become his brother before disappearing again.

Seeing the reaction of his brother's reflection effectively snapped Alex out of his daze. A few seconds of ragged breathing later, Alex pulled himself back to the task at hand. Kneeling before Richard's temporary grave, he removed his combat knife and steeled himself for how messy this was going to be.

_One down, one to go._

* * *

_June 26th, 1979; Umbrella Headquarters, Parisian Facility:_

The room that had previously been trapped in complete transfixed silence as the facility directors and U.S.S. operatives watched the horrific scene of Richard Wesker's murder unfold on the various video feeds displayed via the giant projector screen before them, suddenly burst into a cacophony of shouts and accusations, most of them directed towards Sebastian Wesker.

The man sat calmly through it all, coy smirk planted firmly on his lips as he fully enjoyed the chaos erupting around him that  _his_  Alex had caused. He had to admit, there had been occasions when he'd believed that his charge might parish in this mad attempt, but the boy didn't disappoint.

Not that Sebastian let it show, but he was practically on the edge of his seat in anticipation for what Alex would do to Natalia Wesker, the last of his competition. He still hadn't used the stolen sample yet. Perhaps he intended to infect one of her guards and allow them the pleasure of watching her voluptuous body be ripped apart and devoured. That would certainly be entertaining. Of course then Alex would have to kill the B.O.W. and ensure an outbreak didn't occur which was quite a monumental task.

Sebastian was drawn from his pleasant images by Roads who ending the incoherent shouting match by chucking the chair he'd collapsed into following Richard's crash at the wall. The thrown seat barely missed Sebastian's head.

"I don't care what the rest of you do," he panted, his large gruff features a mix of unbridled emotions and shock from losing his pupil, "but I'm done. Richard is...dead...There's no reason for me to be here any longer." Roads began walking heavily towards the door, his large shoulder's hunched in what was probably a mixture of defeat and grief.

Once he'd reached the door and had the nob gripped in his meaty fists he turned back to Sebastian, eyes boring as menacingly as possible into the cool green ones that seemed to mock him from behind their silver frames. "If you think you are getting away with this stunt, you've got another thing coming. This is  _not_ over."

With that he was gone, slamming the door so hard in was a wonder it didn't break off its hinges.

Through it all Sebastian hadn't faltered, in fact he'd barely even blinked when the chair was hurled at him. "Good day, Director Roads," he spoke calmly to the doorway.

"Do you not see?!" Bershove was yelling again in her accent, so thick Sebastian was surprised she didn't slip back into her native Russian tongue. "This is an outrage! I will not just sit here and watch as his brat does same to my charge as well!"

"Yes," sighed Sebastian, "you've made it quite clear you'd rather stand and scream. A rather useless endeavor as it is apparent that we are all still trapped and there is nothing any of us can do."

"Bullshit! This is your plan, you must have way out!"

"I, in fact, do not," promised Sebastian, eyes moving back to the screen were Alex had just finished removing all his weaponry from the ruined SUV and was dragging it towards the open garage. The camera displayed switched once Alex had entered the building from a view of the destroyed yard via the front gate camera, to one displaying the inside of the dead Wesker's garage. The U.S.S. agent who had been charged with keeping all relevant images displayed on the master screen was quite good at his job.

Bershove turned almost desperately to Hawke. "You can not tell me you believe this...this serpent?!"

Before Hawke could speak, Sebastian was talking again. "Does it really matter?" he drawled, smirk slightly deepening when he saw the way his charge was staring at the brand new, gleaming 1979 Lamborghini located in a far corner of the room. Larger than life, showy, a white paint job with gold detailing, it certainly fit the boy now dumping his deadly baggage in the trunk.

How Richard had got his hands on the vehicle when less than fifty were produced wasn't even fathomable.

"And what is that supposed to mean?" shot Bershove angrily. "Of course it matters!"

"And why is that?" Sebastian repeated, finally tearing his eyes away from the screen as his charge skidded off in the Italian sports car. "You know as well as I do that the unchosen Wesker children were slated for disposal. A fight to the death against each other tests their skills far better than any simulation ever could. Honestly, I'm surprised we didn't think of it before Alex did."

The room was silent, listening intently to his rather twisted proposal.

"I've told you once and I'll tell you again, I had nothing to do with this. Alex has acted solely in this mission and I am powerless to stop him from attempting to complete it, as are we all. However, I urge you to consider the possibilities." He was now looking directly at Hawke. "The Wesker Children  _will_  clash and there can only be two outcomes. Either Alex kills Natalia or vise versa. Both results give you the Wesker child who is clearly the most capable of the three and completes your job of having to eliminate the others—which as you can see, is quite difficult. In addition, due to the secluded locations of both safe houses, it is very unlikely that you'll have any problem with the media before you can dispatch a clean up crew. Personally, I view this as a win win situation."

Bershove's angry response was silenced by Hawke's upraised hand. "There is another very undesirable possibility," she glared, her words clipped. "Alex stole a sample of Tyrant. The boy is too methodical for me to believe he isn't going to use it. If we have an outbreak on our hands, that's not anything close to a win in my book."

Sebastian paused, seeming to consider her words. "Quite undesirable and equally unforgivable. But that is assuming that the Wesker Children or Child could not deal with a biohazard event, something 'in your books' that would make them unacceptable for the position being offered." He smiled devilishly. "I happen to have faith in my  _children._  I'm sure you and your organization will too once the test is complete. Besides, whatever can we do to halt it?"

Hawke glared pure ice at him. "Nothing. And as such, you best pray you are right, Sebastian."

* * *

_June 26th, 1979; Umbrella Safe House 002, Paris, France:_

Good old fashion security guards. No fringe science computerized weaponry making Natalia Wesker's doorstep a war zone, just two beefy, glowering men with their guns aimed at him. God what a relief that was.

Alex couldn't blame them for their alarm and current actions. After searching his newly acquired car and discovering the small stockpile of weaponry, not to mention their initial spotting of the gigantic rifle in his passenger seat, how could they not hold him at gun point?

Smiling as if nothing was wrong Alex complied to their demands to get out of the vehicle, holding his hands up innocently. It was obvious who he was, he wouldn't have to put up with much more of this before-

"Alex Wesker," greeted the pleasantly accented, teasing voice of Natalia Wesker. The woman approached surrounded by two more intimidating bodyguards, her side arm aimed directly at his unfaltering face. Even Alex had to admit that she was even more alluring up close than he'd originally thought.

"And what may I ask brings you here? Please tell me you didn't think I'd let you march right in here with all your guns. You did not even try to hide them, not to mention you are covered in blood. I never thought a Wesker could be so stupid."

Alex smiled gently. "Far to the contrary. It was not my intention to sneak into this..." he took the opportunity to lazily cast his gaze about him.

Unlike Richard's now devastated safe house, this location was built to all of Umbrella's usual spender. The yard was enormous encompassing a variety of fine Parisian sculptures including the giant nine tier fountain sporting a huge angel on top, her wings spread wide, holding a huge extremely sharp looking spear. The monument, resting atop a cobblestone made, monstrous Umbrella symbol, was located in the center of the drive and was large enough to cast a shadow where they were standing just inside the intricately designed seven foot tall golden gate whose accompanying fence surrounded the entire perimeter.

The house itself was built to mimic a small castle. It was four stories high with two large towers located at the west end. Apart from the towers, the top of the structure was completely flat allowing for a sort of rooftop garden which was apparently large enough to house several trees that could be seen from the ground.

The entire property could be lit up by alternating red and white lights strung in increasingly complex designs around the structure. One such arrangement was made up of a pair of lighted metal cables stretching all the way up from the two poles of the gate behind him to the eastern corners of the rooftop garden. These lights were strung over the garden in what he would later find to be the companies octagonal trademark symbol. A second pair of cables extended to the tops of the towers.

Nothing was lit as the sun was still at least an hour away from setting, but still, the hole thing reminded him of an overzealous Christmas decorating. Alex shoved the thought aside; not a pleasant topic.

"Fortress," Alex finally finished before returning to his reason for being here. "I wanted to see you, I even brought a gift."

"Dressed like that?" her delicate but cruel laughter filled the courtyard. "You should no you'll have to do better than a blood stained tailcoat to impress a lady such as myself."

"Indeed," smirked Alex. "Hence the gift."

"What is this 'gift' you keep speaking of? What could the weakest of us possibly have to offer?"

Alex gestured slowly to the vehicle parked behind him. "It's in the trunk, black duffel bag. The car is unlocked if you're curious."

She pouted slightly, the action doing wonderful things to her full lips, before jerking her head to one of the men packed tightly around him. Immediately security guard number one, a tall, leanly built and very mean looking fellow, holstered his weapon and moved around to the back of the vehicle.

Alex forced himself to hide a grin as he heard the trunk open. Several seconds later the man let out a startled gasp that did not fit his professional image. Alex found it even more amusing when he dropped the bag and the contents, Richard Wesker's severed, lifeless head, rolled across the drive leaving a nasty trail of coagulated blood, before coming to a stop in the space between them, his dead eyes looking towards the heavens, bloodied moth hanging ajar.

Natalia's eyes widened behind her fashion lenses and instantly her gun was pointed with new vigor at the center of Alex's grinning face, all her attention focused on him. Her bodyguards quickly followed her lead making Alex the center target of five deadly firearms including a pair of AK47s held by her two personal guards.

"What is the meaning of this?" she hissed coldly. "How did someone as untalented as you kill Richard?"

"With respect I did you a favor. As to your second question, I am actually quite talented, I was simply holding back. I had no desire to join the U.S.S.. In fact, I'm quite sick of this life in general," he replied smoothly.

She laughed. "Is that so? If that's the case," she cocked her gun, "I could end it right here and now."

"Well that wouldn't be very grateful of you now would it?"

Her glare deepened. He could tell by how her delicate brow knitted together. "And what reason do I have to be ' _grateful_?' I didn't need you to kill my competition for me to win. If it had come down to it, I would have killed the man myself."

Alex chuckled darkly. "I didn't just win the game for you. I saved your life."

"Would you like to run that by me one more time?" She stepped forwards menacingly.

It was now time to let that silver tongue he and Sebastian had been cultivating do the talking. He took a deep breath and looked away as if he were embarrassed about something. "You're so much better than him. I couldn't risk the chance of you dying because those fools in the gas masks were too blind to understand such potential."

She couldn't help but smile at the blatant flattery that most would have found hard to swallow. Good, it was working.

"You keep saying that, that I was as risk of being killed, but I don't think my life has been in danger until  _you_  came here with your sports car full of guns."

"Than you obviously were not aware that the U.S.S. was planning on eliminating the two unchosen Weskers."

She paused. "No..." she admitted at length, "but it sure sounds like a stunt they'd pull. So what? You faked sucking at the test because you didn't want to join, then somehow found out you and the other loser were going to be killed, and now you're frantically trying to kill us off so they'll have to pick you?"

She shook her head in disappointment. "I honestly can't fathom how Richard lost to you. If you were going to try and kill me you could have at least made things challenging. Instead you've killed my only competition and practically wrapped yourself up in a bow to be killed by me. You're really pathetic you know that?"

 **"She has a point,"**  agreed Albert's reflection from the nearby fountain, the choppy water doing very unpleasant things to his face.  **"What the hell are you planning? It had better be good or you're a dead man and an errand boy."**

"Has it not occurred to you that that is exactly what I'm trying to do?," he asked, his voice containing a barely detectable desperate waver. "I told you, I'm...I'm  _sick_  of this life, of Umbrella. They..." and now he really let his acting shine through, "...they took my brother; my goddamned twin! He's dead or worse and regardless I'm never going to see him again!"

 **"I can't believe you're using me like that. I have no desire to be dragged into your game or help you. Though I don't see how being a desperate, pathetic, weakling is going to improve your** **odds."**

Alex continued unhalted by the scathing words. "I just can't  _do_  this anymore!" He trailed off looking off into the distance as if remembering something awful. "I don't suppose you know what it's like; losing a sibling...someone who relies on you?"

Oh but she  _did_ , and he knew it. It's why he'd chosen her for this part.

Aside from himself there were only a handful of siblings in Project W and he and Albert were the only twins. The company had decided that half of these siblings would be raised apart and half together. Results were to be compared.

Natalia had been in the "lucky" half; the one that got to keep their true brother or sister with them. Unfortunately, a few years ago, Umbrella had decided that having family with them made them weak and possibly unloyal to the company. So they'd separated the pairs, one way or another. Not that such a move had a high probability of improving moral.

Natalia's older sister had been killed "in the line of duty." A setup that she may or my not have been aware of. The point was, Alex, who had access to all the Project W files, including the ones detailing the Brothers and Sisters Research, knew about it and was planning to use it against her.

She stared at him, faltering. Suddenly she was angry again. "So you're going to give up like that? You're not going to try and use the U.S.S. position to find him? You don't even know if he's dead."

Alex shook his head dejectedly. " He blames me for what happened. Even if I found him he wouldn't forgive me. Besides, what is it to you? You've won, I've assured it and you have no obligation to grant me any favors."

She hesitated, suddenly unsure of her next move. "This is true. But why me? If you just wanted a way out, why not help him-" she gestured to the head that was far beyond anyone's help, "-instead?"

Alex paused, smile returning as he looked up in his best imitation of a blush—it wasn't half bad. "Well, you're a lot prettier than he was. There is something much more appealing about having a beautiful woman end your existence rather than another man." He paused fully relishing in the look on her face. "Letting Richard kill me would make me feel rather...inadequate in comparison while sacrificing myself for the lady has a certain gentlemanly heroism to it."

She blinked a few times from behind her dark frames before bursting into laughter. "Alex," more giggles, "you are a very odd boy."

Alex shrugged. "Teenagers, what can you say?"

 **"You look like a moron,"** growled Albert's Reflection in annoyance.  **"I don't think the U.S.S. wants a comedy routine. Just kill her already."**

She continued her laughter. "True, true. You are very humorous in the face of your own demise, you know this, right?" She waved her hand dismissively, lowering her gun. "Fine, fine. You make a decent point, he was not much to look at; far too bulky for my tastes. Anyways, since you have been such a good sport about this whole thing, I will grant you a...dying request. That is fair, yes?"

Alex smiled in perfected fake sincerity. "More than I ever could have dreamed."

"Alright, out with it than."

He glanced down again. "My brother. In the U.S.S. you may have the ability to locate him—his name is Allen and the last I heard he was being shipped the the Shanghai branch. If you ever find him, please tell him I'm sorry."

 **"Not giving her my real name?"** chuckled Albert's Reflection.  **"Does this mean you're actually concerned you'll lose?"**  His tone was mocking.  **"But I though you and** _ **him**_ **never lose..."**

Her features softened momentarily. "I can do this for you. You have my word and my thanks for your efforts." She began to raise her gun.

"Wait!" he cried suddenly causing some of her men to jump and readjust their aim on him.

"Um...does it...have to be here?" he inquired meekly. "I had hoped not to die in the street like some dog." He again played the shy card, looking at her heel clad feet rather than her face. "Perhaps something more...intimate?"

After a few beats of silence she let out a throaty laugh. "You would have me fuck you before I kill you?"

He had to stop himself from choking in shock. By intimate he'd meant...alone, away from her guards and their guns. He hadn't meant sex nor was he even the least bit experienced in that area. It's not like Sebastian gave him any opportunity to "fool around." He hadn't and didn't desire to either. Sincere or not, such relations would let others too close and open oneself up to a whole host of problems.

Alex did a quick review of everything he knew about her and cross referenced it with the amused way she was looking at him taking special consideration of the almost hungry smirk at the corner of her lips.

Hey, it was her idea not his. All he needed was to get her alone and it seemed going along with this line of reasoning would get him there.

He forced himself to go redder by lowering his usual emotional guards and thinking of Sebastian's reaction to such a scene. "I-if you are not opposed to such a," he swallowed hard, "request."

She giggled wickedly, looking him up and down. "No...I suppose I wouldn't be. You did  _save_  me after all."

She holstered her gun and he subtlety moved his hand away from his jacket pocket which served as the location to the detonator of a very flashy, loud, but not very deadly, explosive hidden behind the passenger seat of his new car. Alex  _never_  left things to chance.

"That is, of course, on the stipulation that you leave all your weapons behind and submit to a detailed frisking."

Looks like he'd be getting her alone after all. Apparently, this Wesker also moonlighted as a whore.

"By you?" He had asked partly to keep up appearances in this despicable game, partly because he really hoped one of her less than pleasing guards would be given the assignment.

Her grin told him he'd be having no such luck.

He sighed. "A small price to pay." Alex then removed his web gear containing his two pistols and combat knife, expertly slipping the detonator back into the front seat with it. This left him only the impossibly small vile with the even smaller attached needle. It was hidden beneath the seam of his tail coat in a tiny hidden compartment within his right side pocket. No amount of frisking could discover this double edged sword. The brute searching him certainly hadn't found it.

Once he was weapon free, Natalia made her way over to his newly acquired car and carefully looked over the beautiful high powered precision rifle in the passenger seat. "I'm sure you won't mind if, after this is all over, I make use of your equipment?"

"I'll be dead," he answered simply, "I'm sure I won't be minding anything."

She nodded, pleased and then took him by his blood stained gloved hand, leading him into her mansion.

Just as he'd thought, overconfidence would be her downfall.

The inside of the safe house was set up in an fashion equal to its outside grandeur. The foyer was decked out to the nines in rich golds, spotless white marble floors, and polished woods. The gigantic chandelier hanging down from the second floor ceiling over the sparkling entrance way, with his golden frame done out to mimic the larger than life Umbrella insignia crafted into the floor was too much in Alex's opinion. Especially when combined with the similarly embroidered tapestries hanging from the second story landing. Honestly, the egotism of this company... It knew no bounds.

But Alex didn't care one way or another about the décor. His reason's for such careful scanning were much more practical. Knowing the layout, both schematically and physically could mean the difference between life and death.

As they were transversing the stairs he noticed in perfectly masked annoyance that they were covered in a golden runner that could easily be dislodged with too much activity; say, running for one's very life. Best to avoid it unless he could use such a comically old trick.

Once they reached to second floor landing, Natalia lead him by his uncomfortably warm almost sticky hand into the mansion's southern wing. They were still being trailed by a two man escort: Lean and Mean whose mood didn't seem to have improved after dropping of Richard's head on the pavement accompanied by a stockier built man in his late forties who had more visible scares than Alex could count; not that he was trying.

This area of the mansion was just as ravishingly furnished as the foyer had been, the orange light from the now setting sun pouring through the westward windows catching hold of all the golden and red hues making the place look almost ablaze in a smoldering coals sort of way. Alex seemed particularly concerned with the way in caught the metal of their escort's weaponry.

Between the three of them he was looking at three side arms, probably with extra clips stored in the webbing of the two men. Then there were the two fully loaded—he hoped—AK47s the two sour faced guards had slung over their shoulders. Those were vastly more promising. He didn't see any grenades which was a shame but he could tell for a fact that both Natalia and Scars—who ironically looked like he'd gotten most his injuries from blades—were sporting a variety of knives.  _That_ was something he definitely didn't want to have to resort to.

Natalia stopped outside one of the doors which, according to his mental map, led to a one of the safe house's many bedrooms.

She nodded to her guards who took their posts on either side of the door. They looked  _thrilled_  to be placed outside the room where certain...exploits were planned. Alex mentally chuckled. If this was how she normally acted it was no wonder everyone looked so angry all the time.

Alex continued to just watch as she handed over all her weapons to Scar who stowed them on a nearby planter stand beneath the bushy leaves of the fern resting there.

Natalia smirked when she noticed his stare. "You won't be offended if I don't trust you? We are Weskers after all. Deception is in our nature and I would hate to have you try to spoil our fun."

Her words made him even more desperate to get his hand out of her's. Silk gloves weren't near enough separation for his tastes.

"Of course not." he smiled as sincerely as possible. "I was just curious how you planned to kill me without them."

She pressed a delicate finger to his lips and he had to desperately fight down the urge to recoil. It was even harder to do so when she leaned well into his personal space. " _Shh!_  We wouldn't want to ruin the best part now would we?"

Her breath was hot as it tickled across his face.

"I wouldn't dream of it," he managed past her finger. "But allow me to hazard a guess." He gently but firmly grabbed the offending hand and pulled it from his face. "If you intend to use your bare hands I would assume you will either choke me or break my neck. I must confess I would prefer the latter. It's faster that way."

"Like a twig," she promised in a breathy voice.

Suddenly he was being pulled forcefully into the room by his lapels.

The door shut with a loud click behind him.

In the next few minutes of Alex's life he was exposed to a side of humanity that he would have much preferred to never have encountered. While Sebastian may have exposed him to most of the deplorable aspects of human nature, Alex had a distinct lack of experience in this department. The closest he'd been to intimacy was his nigh decade old relationship with his twin and that was nothing in comparison to what he was being subjugated to at the moment.

At first she had been slow, playful as she forced him to sit on the bed and then slipped him out of his tailcoat which she threw unceremoniously off the side of the bed with a overconfident but somehow coy smirk. Thankfully the tailcoat and the deadly syringe were still just within his reach though it did make them more difficult to get to.

Alex wasn't sure why he let this ridiculous game continue for so long. Perhaps it was that he wanted the woman now straddling him vulnerable and completely unsuspecting of any sort of foul play when he struck. Maybe it was just stupid inane curiosity about this yet unexplored aspect of humanity; something most individuals found to be an essential and normal part of existence. Whatever the reason, he found he seriously regretted his choice in the matter.

As her movements became more urgent and her hands more explicitly familiar with regions of his body that he wanted no one, especially some soon-to-be-dead-Wesker exploring, Alex decided that it was beyond time to put an end to this rather nasty charade. He was not about to let Natalia finish undoing his belt the way she's already done to the buttons on his shirt.

Following by lead of the frequency and pitch of the animalistic noises coming from her pale throat, Alex directed the touches of his left hand in the ways most likely to distract her from the actions of his right: Searching for the secret compartment and small but lethal dose of virus it contained.

The situation ended up with her completely atop him, her slender but powerful thighs pinning him to the mattress as her lips and tongue did a series of rather sloppy wet maneuvers on his neck and chest before he managed to free the tiny vial and uncap the needle.

She let out a small startled gasp as she felt the sharp sting on her neck, her hand jerking from Alex's white trousers to grab at the now empty delivery system.

Veil of lies now shattered, Alex flipped the shocked woman so that his elbow was pressing painfully into her throat, his wickedly grinning face inches from her now terror filled one. She could probably already feel the virus rushing through her veins, rapidly and unforgivably invading each of her cells that would momentarily begin mutating them faster and more gruesomely than any cancer ever could.

"Looks like our little game has come to an end. I'd say I had fun, but in all reality, I found you to be as disgusting as you are about to become."

The infected Wesker shrieked and shoved Alex off of her with more strength then should have been humanly possible for someone her size. This in combination with her sporadically shaking body, the muscles of which were beginning to pulsate beneath her ivory skin, reminded Alex that he had precious little time and no room for error. Patrick had just been the warm up. This was his real test.

The woman whose body was beginning to mutate against her will and control stumbled to feet that would barely support her, throwing the empty syringe to the floor. "W-what di-" What ever she was trying to say was cut short as the muscles in her leg swelled and twitched grotesquely causing her to fall to her hand and knees on the floor where she immediately began heaving up vast quantities of a putrid smelling, necrotic black liquid all over the once beautiful royal red carpet.

"What did you...do...to...me...?" She gasped out between unintelligible spasms of her vocal cords. Her voice was far too deep and gravely to belong to the previous Umbrella made beauty Alex had moments ago been pinned beneath. Nor was the face that looked up at him—mouth dripping with a mix of rot smelling vomit and excessive salivation, eyes beginning to cloud over in a mix of dying retinal tissue and blood from ruptured capillaries, jaws and teeth beginning to elongate and grow to the point that the skin of her lips and cheeks began to tear, skin taking on a ghastly dead gray color—anything comparable to the sinisterly yet sweetly smiling features of the woman he'd met at the gate.

Alex's monstrous grin widened. It was simply wonderfully seeing such self assured vanity brought to it's knees and ripped away like the thin veil it truly was. "Nothing much. I'm simply showing you and the rest of Umbrella the true monsters they created."

He dodged quickly to the left and towards the door as the constant putrid dribble from her bloody ripped lips turned into projectile vomiting and blood began to spray outwards from suddenly appearing and equally as rapidly bursting gigantic boils on her once slender sides. It was time to leave. Any longer and he'd most likely die with what was left of this Wesker's consciousness.

Alex slammed through the room's door, shouldering past the two confused guards who had never heard their mistress make anything close to the raw inhuman screams now now ripping from elongating throat mixed with almost indiscernible pleas for help against a terrible force racking her now twisted body know as T-597 that not even it's creators could halt now. Taking advantage of their shock, Alex managed to grab up Natalia's abandoned equipment before he sprinted off down the hallway.

Thankfully they were too shocked with the recent turn concerned with their mistress's safety to do much more than shoot a few rounds after him and shout a useless, "Halt!" after his retreating form before they entered the hellish bloodied and virus blackened room before them. Their suddenly cut short cries of terror and anguish informed Alex that they didn't live long.

That was fine. As long as they were really dead, T-597's lack of an ability to reanimate an infected body meant he'd only have one monstrous . To deal with. Any more than that and this task would go from nigh improbable to down right impossible.

Alex quickly took the safety off Natalia's side arm which was of vastly more use to him now that its original owner's hands were probably too deformed to hold it and mind too rotted to even recall its use. He hadn't gotten the opportunity to grab either of the two AK47s. That was fine, a check of the clip on his opponent's gun had proved it to be full. In addition to the two extras in her webbing, this provided him with ample means to fight through the remaining guards and get to his vehicle where the real fire power was. Several well placed shots from his anti-material rifle and even the strongest of B.O.W.s would go down.

It didn't take long for the other guards to become aware that something was terribly wrong. The sounds that were coming from the southern wing sounded as though they belonged in some particularly gory horror film. Before he'd reached the foyer, Alex picked up the sound of a myriad of heavy boot clad foot falls and a blend of barked orders and confused shouts.

It was a bit of a gamble, but Alex quickly ducked into one of the side rooms allowing the group to run past. In all his tests with T-579 the infected creatures had killed everything they'd come across as if the sound of a pulse was an offense to their very existence. There were quite a lot of armed men however and he'd yet to experiment on a human subject before...in the end though, he figured it was better than getting trapped between the Umbrella guards and the once human woman who no longer had control over them let alone herself.

In the end it hadn't mattered. Everything went to hell in the foyer.

The Umbrella Corporation and her predecessors would become infamous for it's messes, a fact Raccoon City, Tall Oaks, Rockford Island, and Taichi and many other towns and facility would become all chilling testaments to. Perhaps either thankfully or horrifically—depending on your stand point—something Umbrella was just as good at was, after varying points of time following an outbreak occurred, sanitizing the infection and everything it touched.

The Umbrella Safe House 002 under the Parisian Facility's prevue was no exception to this series of events. Once the threat that had once been known as Natalia Wesker had been identified as full blown biohazard with a high propensity of causing viral spread in areas outside the safe house if not contained, the grizzled old Russian solider in charge of the detail previously ordered to protect the beast now rampaging through the mansion ordered a complete lock down of the safe house and started the facility's self destruction countdown. It was one of the last things he did before his crimson stains joined those of his men painting the once magnificent halls in a ghastly new light.

As Alex rounded the corner and came up on the balcony looking down on the foyer he heard the alarms and saw the same metal shudders he had locked the main facility behind almost an hour ago rapidly descend downwards over ever window and door trapping him in a mansion that was now screeching its own suicidal intentions down at him. Then the lights went down as all power was diverted to the death machine located beneath the "safe" house and the chorus of blaring alarms and flashing red lights that continued to announce the unhaltable destruction that was soon to begin.

Alex's movements came to a complete stop at the top of the stairs as he took in reality of the soon-to-be mass grave he was trapped in and listened the steadily increasing scream's of Natalia's dying men mingling with the unearthly wailing of the fast approaching monster that would be only too happy to kill him before the strangely calm recording of the French woman could begin her final countdown.

This was bad. No, that wasn't a strong enough word. This would be the end.

He had only the CZ 75 Automatic pistol with a total of forty five shots. Even he hit dead on with each and every one that wouldn't be near enough to stop her from ripping him open. He supposed he could go back for the other guns but the halls were too narrow and without a significant head start, it was very unlikely he could outrun her nor was it guaranteed that the guns would even be decently loaded—he'd heard a lot of rounds going off during his mad dash through the halls—or that even with the extra fire power, he could end her.

Alex's grip became so tight on the firearm in his left hand that it started shaking.

That wasn't even his biggest issue. He had less than ten minutes remaining before this entire mansion went sky high and took them both with it.

He was trapped. He should have thought of this; should have hacked into the safe house's security like he'd done back at the main facility.

Suddenly all the screaming stopped. The ominous foot falls the shook the very floor did not.

Alex went rigid. The guards were all dead. There was nothing left to distract the monster he'd created from its true goal: Him.

Images of his insides being forcefully ripped out by sharp fangs and jagged talons while he lay helpless and dying in a pool of red began uncontrollably over whelming his mind.

He would have died; right there; standing motionless in by balcony; as he'd imagined or perhaps in some more horrific way. But he didn't.

It's funny how the things that seem to be our most damning qualities are those that prove to be our saving grace. The shout of,  **"UP!"**  from Albert's Reflection held in the metallic elevator doors the the end of the hallway directly behind him certainly was Alex's.

" **Wessskaaar!** "

Mind now snapped back into place and set on leaving this place alive Alex didn't hesitate when he heard the ungodly shrieking of the title he was now, more than ever, determined to hold on to. Without looking, even though he both felt and heard the thundering foot falls of the yet unseen monster behind him, Alex backed up several yards and then sprinted towards the balcony edge. The vaulting leap he made took him flying over the marble foyer and onto grand chandelier which began swinging wildly back towards the entrance doors.

The maneuver almost took the decoration and Alex out of range of the murderous claws reaching for him. What was left of Natalia Wesker's once delicate fingers caught hold of the outermost ring. The weight of the crazed B.O.W. sent the structure spinning out of control. The violent shuddering and creaking groans made by the chandelier as the misshapen beast that Alex couldn't really make out in the flashing red emergency light tried to madly claw its way up towards Alex indicated that the foyer's grandest décor wouldn't be hanging much longer.

At the highest point of the chandelier's swing towards the second floor balcony, Alex jumped, feeling the mighty snap of the metal chain just as his feet left the highly damaged frame.

Alex's body hit the landing. He rolled to his feet just in time to see the chandelier crash to the floor, taking a screaming Natalia with it. The creature momentarily pinned, Alex took the only opportunity he had to escape. He bolted for the elevator.

He didn't expect it to be working, and it certainly wasn't, but unlike the unmovable steel shudders blocking all the doors and windows, these doors could be moved.

Using the knife he'd retrieved from Natalia's web gear he jammed in between the metal doors and forced them open just enough to get his his finger's between them. Several moments of straining later, the doors were open revealing the elevator had come to rest on this floor.

The earsplitting scream that threatened to force Alex to cover his alerted him to how little time he had left. Alex fired a few rounds at the panel placed on the structure's roof causing it to become dislodged and fall to the ground with a clatter. Then, using the golden handrails on the side he launched himself at the opening gloved finger's just catching.

For a moment he just hung there trying to adjust his grip, then he saw the shadowed B.O.W. running towards him, long body scurrying a few feet above the floor on too many legs, talons leaving deep gouges in the crimson stained carpet, dripping maw agape ans screaming incoherently, haunting white eyes locked onto him. Alex didn't waste another second hauling himself through the hole and out of the elevator.

Not second's later, the metal box beneath him jerked and shook, the vibrations carrying up the cable threatening to knock him off his feet. The metallic straining noise filling the shaft wasn't very promising either.

If he didn't cut this extra baggage loose, he'd be taken down with her, one way or another.

Right as Alex grabbed hold of the metal cable holding the trembling elevator car in place and aimed his gun at the attachment system, a bloodied malshapen hand flew from the opening the the car's roof and slashed violently at his legs. Alex sidestepped at the last second and her razor claws slashed through his target. With nothing to off set the counter weight the cable he was grabbing onto whipped up the shaft carrying him at high speeds towards the top floor while the car crashed down two stories past the first floor and into the basement, the resulting crashing shaking the entire shaft.

It was tempting to think that his problems with the mutated Wesker were over, but he had designed the virus racing through her veins and as such he knew that wasn't happening any time soon. This was far from over.

The trip to the top of the six story shaft happened in mere seconds, making Alex's brief moment of opportunity to jump to the insignificant edge at the fourth floor landing nigh impossible to execute. But it was either that or be smashed against the shaft's roof by the momentum of the counter balance, or fall back to his death six stories below in the waiting claws of the monster below. Neither of which sounded very appealing.

As soon as Alex caught a glimpse of the steel doors that marked his only escape route, he jumped, launching himself at the ledge he couldn't even see in this darkness, but knew had to exist. His shoes glanced off of it causing him to fall several feet before his hands barely caught hold of it in time.

He didn't even have time to breath a sigh of relief before he heard the chilling warning echo up the metal shaft. " _Self destruction will commence in three minutes. This sequence cannot be aborted._ "

If it wasn't one thing it was another.

Carefully hauling himself onto the ledge and securing his footing as best he could, Alex retrieved the combat knife and proceeded to pry open the second set of heavy doors. For a brief moment Alex contemplated the disaster that would ensue should he discover that the shaft exit to the rooftop gardens was also sealed off with the impenetrable steel shudders blocking off ever other escape route. Thinking about being trapped in a small shaft with a ferocious B.O.W. with no where to go and no way to kill it was hardly productive. As such, Alex put all his effort into getting out.

Even Umbrella in all its greatness didn't think of everything. Alex had to force himself not to collapse in relief when he saw the rays from the sinking sun shinning through the crack in the doors he had created.

Alex wasted no time in forcing the elevator doors the rest of the way open, relishing in the chilly evening air as it blew past him into the shaft. Once out, Alex quickly took in his surrounding.

The Wesker Child had to blink a few times to orient himself due to the drastic change of scenery that made him feel as though he's stepped into another world. He was standing animist a well maintained lavish garden that looked like it came out of an exquisite fantasy book. A winding cobble stone path cut its way through bowers filled with blooming vines, flower beds shamelessly filling the air with their sweet perfumes, lavish ponds, small artificial hills, and even fruit bearing trees, all of it illuminated by the dying rays of the sun. An intricate design of hanging strings of lights would have added yet another degree to the mystical feel of this place, but as all power was going the the self destruct sequence, they remained unlit.

Alex took one glance behind him at the dark emptiness of the open elevator doors before running uncaringly over the lush greenery and towards the edge of the roof. Four stories below him, he saw the grand courtyard with its gaudy fountain, the golden colored rot iron gates, and just inside that, his white Lamborghini inside which rested the means of is salvation. But how to get down there?

His quick calculating eyes fell on the sturdy looking cables that held and delivered power to the string of lights connecting the rooftop gardens to the tops of the gate polls right next to his goal.

Well that could work.

Alex was just working out the logistics of his plan when the terrible shriek behind him and grating screening sound claws over metal warned him that he was no longer alone in this false Eden.

Past the various branches and leaves he saw the hideous monster pulling its dilapidated body up out of the shaft.

For the brief moment when the creature remained still at the mouth of the dark doorway, Alex finally got a good look at the monster he'd created.

Dark matted hair hung down in front of her hanging head, almost masking the wicked thing her once prized features had twisted themselves into. Her mouth stretched in a horrid Cheshire Cat grin from ear to ear and was practically overflowing with rows of ill fitting jagged fangs stacked on top of one another, jutting out at odd angles. The result was a horrific mouth, still dripping that black necrotic liquid, that was unable to close and thus constantly displaying a horrific skeletal grin from which a long bleeding tongue lolled, constantly being cut by her razor teeth as it lapped sporadically from side to side.

Her eyes were eery white dead things peering out from the matted strands and constantly darting back and fourth as if following the path of a myriad of invisible darting insects.

Her long hanging neck was attached to a bulbous swollen body covered in a festering mix of pulsating and already ruptured blisters oozing a similar black substance.

Spouting from the swollen tumor-like body at odd angles and varying locations here a total of seven different shaped arms most of unequal length and proportion. Six of them erupted from her ghastly form in places approximating the appropriate places for bases of an arachnid's appendages. The seventh, which had grown out of her chest, was malformed and small in comparison to the rest and was clamped protectively over a steadily oozing portion of her chest.

She supported what was left of herself on these long blister ridden arms and her two led arched up over herself like those of a grasshopper, the result leading her to look like some horrible insect or too many legged reptile.

She arched her long neck over her crooked back, extended each of her razor tipped clawed arms, and screamed out something that was supposed to be his name but sounded more like a chorus of dying cats. In the process, the seventh seemingly useless arm opened up with the rest of of her appendages revealing the beating, bright red, exposed heart beneath.

" _Warning. Self destruction will commence in two minutes. This sequence cannot be aborted._ "

He really didn't have time for this but is didn't seem she was going to give him much choice in the matter.

Alex didn't wait for her to make the first move, instead he aimed for the first flaw he'd seen in the primary field test of T-579: her visible cardiac tissue, firing a total of five shots in quick succession at the pulsating red hunk of flesh, each of them erupting in a satisfying spray of black and crimson liquid.

The reaction by the monstrosity was instantaneous. Natalia let out an ear shattering scream and fell back to the ground, underdeveloped hand once again gripping her wounded, but unfortunately, healing chest, once again hiding it from Alex's sight and damage. Then she charged.

Alex misjudged her abilities. He had intended to just ignore her until he got off this death trap and had the fire power to put an end to this game, but Natalia had other plans for him. Just as he had turned away from her to the unlit cable that was to be his escape route, the creature climbing and crawling it's way through the garden let out a horrid gurgling retching noise and sent a concentrated stream of the black putrid liquid it was always drooling.

Alex dodged the majority of the disgusting substance by rolling to the right, however, a significant portion stuck to his left leg and foot and held him tightly to the ground and the rest of the stinking mass as though it were some sort of moldy yet tenacious spiderweb.

Screaming out what was most likely a bought of sadistically twisted laughter at her latest triumph, the B.O.W. resumed her highly insectoid method of running towards her now trapped victim.

Alex didn't even have time to swear, instead he focused everything on cutting through the thick extremely sticky strands. The combat knife kept getting caught up in the strange material that was perhaps the strongest form of glue now know to man. He actually felt her rotten breath against the side of his face and the disturbance in the air from her clawed hand just as the knife cut through the last of the web-like material and he pulled away, not a split second to soon.

The area he'd been erupted in an explosion of stone and other roofing materials as Natalia ripped everything in that section of the roof to shreds as if it were made of nothing stronger than paper. In the final bought of her erratic deadly thrashing, she took out the section where the cable was attached, causing it to go slack and tumble off the roof, making it utterly useless to Alex. He was quickly running out of options, his final one being the twin still undamaged cable at the opposite corner of the roof. If he destroyed that one too, it was over.

Alex took several hurried steps back towards the inner area of the garden half loaded gun pointed at the creature it couldn't hope to seriously hurt who was still between him and his only remaining hope of getting off of this roof alive.

" _Warning. Self destruction will commence in one minute. This sequence cannot be aborted._ "

Alex fired. He unloaded the remaining rounds into the wickedly grinning beast before him. The first three went into the seemingly impenetrable hand protecting her only weak spot, the other five blasted into her nightmarish smile. As soon as the gun was empty, Alex loaded the first of his two extra clips and repeated the process, pausing only long enough to make sure each nine millimeter round found its mark.

The series of rapid head shots did little more than enrage the creature, causing her to once again thunder towards him.

This time he was ready.

He'd seen the way her body reacted the last time she'd nearing decapitated him. All her arms including the one guarding her heart opened up to ensnare him, the goal to completely trap him so her hellish mouth could devour his entirety. That would be his only opportunity. Anything less than a perfect execution would result in a terribly gruesome death. But that was something Alex refused to let himself imagine as the twisted monster thundered towards his unmoving form. The only thing Alex allowed himself to picture was the flawless dodge to the right followed by the swift plunging of the grime covered combat knife now held firmly in his hands into her heart. That, and the reason he was doing all of this in the first place: his unknowing, uncaring brother; the one he couldn't possibly save if he was killed up on this rooftop.

She struck, her long bulbous body rearing up like some sort of snake as she did, arms going wide in an attempt to lock him in a final embrace before she ripping his head from his body, mouth open wide enough to fit his entire face.

Alex dodged, downwards, his body spinning to the right just enough to miss the deadly talons before just a quickly rising and driving that nine inch blade directly into her pounding heart right up to the hilt, think jets of stick black and red blood gushing out with each beat, covering the gloves, arms, and jacket front.

The shriek that erupted from her deformed throat was actually disorienting causing Alex to stumble back leaving the knife still buried in her cardiac muscle. One of her thrashing arms caught him across the chest in a backhand so powerful it sent him flying back nearly ten feet into the trunk of a nearby tree.

Alex's entire world was spinning as he tried desperately to reorient himself and get his rubbery feeling feet to cooperate. Natalia lay thrashing and screaming in the middle of a growing pile of rotted blood, weapon still plunged into her spasming heart.

" _Warning. Self destruction will commence in thirty seconds. This sequence cannot be aborted._ "

That would be enough to get anyone to their feet.

At first he stumbled but then sprinted as fast as he could towards the southeast corner of the roof, ripping off the too tight web gear as he ran—gun and knife abandoned, it no longer severed a purpose aside from that which it was about to be used for.

" _Warning. Self destruction will commence in twenty seconds. This sequence cannot be aborted._ "

Alex slammed to a stop in front of the hanging cable held in place to a raised portion of the waste high wall surrounding the roof by a thick metal ring. Alex prayed it would hold, but it wasn't as though he had much choice either way. Throwing the web gear over the unlighted cable so that the two arm straps were hanging over either side, Alex firmly grabbed hold of them and prepared himself for his trip down the makeshift zip line.

 **"Aaaaaleeex!"**  screamed the monstrosity from somewhere behind him.

" _Warning. Self destruction will commence in ten seconds. This sequence cannot be aborted._ "

Alex didn't look back, he just jumped.

Alex felt as though he'd left his stomach somewhere up on the roof as his body sped down the line. His decent was accompanied by the constant spray of broken glass from the unlit bulbs hanging from the cable, Natalia's continued shrieking, and the French woman's steady count down towards zero. Alex didn't even really feel the searing pain in his already abused shoulder and back as the muscles stretched and strained to keep hanging onto the straps cutting into his hands instead of falling to his death below.

A few meters to the gate, just past the huge sword bearing angel statue, Alex released the straps and fell, rolling painfully on impact with the hard decorative cobble stone until he came to a halt at the golden fence.

The entire trip had taken him less than five seconds giving him a few spare extras in which to turn back to the mansion and see that his horrors were not yet through. Twisting over the cable he'd just rode down was the creature he'd thought he'd seen the last of.

Though his entire body ached from his various exploits throughout the day, Alex forced himself to the passenger side of the Lamborghini and grabbed the gigantic loaded rifle, hoisting it to his already pounding shoulder.

**"Wessskaaar!"**

_"...two...one...Self destruct initiated."_

The explosion knocked him back against his car and shook the very ground as the entire mansion was blown into the air force sending bricks, wooden beams, and glass flying, the infernal glowing a brighter orange than the setting sun. It also offered a perfect silhouette of the mutated creature in all it's horror as it flew through the air towards him, thrown forwards by a combination of the blast and its last second leap.

Alex brought up the rifle most would have had to be laying down to shoot faster than most could blink, sending a .50 caliber bullet into the center of the flaying B.O.W..

The power of the attack shot her backwards into the angelic statue who's sword neatly impaled her elongated abdomen causing her to scream in agony as her blackened twisted guts began spilling down into the once pristine waters of the fountain below. Imminently all her arms folded in, each of them blocking her heart and preventing Alex from getting the kill shot to end her existence and this game.

No matter he had nine more shots and only eight more targets.

Reaming the gun, Alex ignored his shoulder which was screaming in protest against to the nigh unbearable recoil of the gun that was meant to be used on tanks and other armored military equipment rather than soft targets. His next earsplitting shot took off her lowest arm on the left side. Flesh turned to flying chucks of meat and red spray as her shoulder was completely destroyed and the mutated arm fell into the fountain below her.

Five more thunderous shots erupted from the semi-automatic Barrett M82 each of them gruesomely amputating an arm from the wailing writhing B.O.W. whose mutative healing was doing more damage than good to her at this point. The rapidly tumorous lumps replacing her arms only further weighing her down and preventing any sort or escape from the stone impaling her.

Alex was Practically shaking as he took aim at her final arm desperately clinging to the one thing aside from time that could be her downfall. The eighth shot shattered her final arm shooting pieces of a jagged armor-like material all around her broken body.

Alex lowered the rifle, momentarily taking in what was left of the Wesker Child before him. The bloated misshapen body squirting and oozing a variety of detestable fluids sporting the grotesque head wasn't even recognizable as the deadly beauty who'd greeted him here not even a hour ago. A slight smirk danced over his lips. What horrible monsters Umbrella had created to play such a twisted game.

A gurgling sound from deep in the monster's throat caused the rifle to fly to his bruised and battered shoulder and the final shot to fly straight into her mutated heart, turning it into nothing more than a gaping hole and a fine red mist spattering the upturned face and wings of the angel holding her captive. All movement and sound was cut short, Natalia's head fell limply to her side, a corrosive black acid falling from her lips dissolving the sword and allowing her lifeless body to fall into the red blood filled pool below.

"Check mate," Alex whispered allowing first the rifle and then himself to slowly sink to the ground.

The game was over. He'd won.

Umbrella and Wesker couldn't be prouder of the monster that was their finest creation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter completely surprised me with how long it turned out. Seventy one pages is definitely a record. I hope you enjoyed the length, how Alex's character has developed over the long years within Umbrella, and his personal take on his objective to get into the U.S.S.. This was also my first time doing a full out B.O.W. fight as well as an original creation of the virus so I hope that turned out to your liking as well.
> 
> Thank you for reading,
> 
> -Asiera


	12. PG09A/W: Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Birkin and Wesker always thought they were the best Umbrella had to offer, but when a ten year old Alexia Ashford enters the scene as Umbella's youngest Chief Researcher, Birkin feels more than a little threatened in his position. Wesker could really care less about the entire situation aside from the fact that Birkin's ranting is exceedingly annoying. The only thing that could make this day worse is one of Umbrella's creations trying to kill them...again.

 

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG09A/W: Breathing**

_July 27th, 1981; Spencer Estate_

"A ten year old! A fucking  _ten year old_ , Al! What the hell is Umbrella thinking?" raged a distraught Birkin as he paced relentlessly up and down the richly furnished bar area of Lord Spencer's mountainside manner. The couple had discovered this grand lounge shortly after Umbrella had started testing on humans less than three years ago. Since then, the usually quiet room had become their personal sanctuary from all the madness and horror that their lives had spiraled into.

Wesker sighed in annoyance, his head leaning haplessly on his hand, elbow resting on the covered grand piano. Birkin had been going on, and on,  _and on_  about the hiring of the ten year old child prodigy, Alexia Ashford by Umbrella ever since Dr. Marcus had brought it up for a bit of "light" conversation while they watched a mindless T-Carrier attempt to solve a semi-complex maze to get at the shackled human struggling on the other side. Intelligence tests of the creatures were never very successful but there was no denying that they were relentless...

"How long are you going to carry on about this, Will?" Wesker asked with a yawn.

"As long as I bloody want to, Al! She's  _ten_!" yelled Birkin kicking the bar stool in front of him and watching in brief satisfaction as it crashed to the floor. He then started swearing about his smarting toe.

Wesker laughed. If he counted all the times Birkin had informed him of the young Ashford's induction into Umbrella he would be well into the three digits. "Yes, Dearheart. So you've told me, and told me, and then  _told_  me again.  _What_  is the big deal?"

"She. Is. Ten. Years. Old!" shouted Birkin, saying each word slowly as if Wesker couldn't understand the simple phrase.

"And?" he prompted.

"And  _nothing_!" He threw his hands up into the air in exasperation. "What could Umbrella possibly do with a little ten year old?"

Wesker turned away, long ago exhausted with the topic, and curiously pushed up cover on the piano. Strange that they'd come to this room for so long but he'd never touched the instrument. He was quite sure he didn't know how to play, but the ivory and ebony keys felt somehow…familiar under his fingers as he ran them over the smooth surface so gently that the device didn't make a sound.

He wasn't getting anywhere with Birkin, but he still humored the raging twenty year old. "Oh I don't know, Will. They say she's the smartest individual they've ever tested. We were rather young when Umbrella hired us."

Birkin pointed an accusatory finger at Wesker's face. " _You_  were almost seventeen and _I_ was fifteen! That's not ten! What is she going to do? Play dolly with the viruses?"

Wesker snorted, abandoning his examination of the instrument's keys to smirk wryly at his boyfriend of four years. "So that's the real reason, eh? You're jealous because your record as the youngest individual to be hired by Umbrella's research department has been shattered by a little blond haired girl in pigtails?"

Birkin raged, storming over to Wesker like he was going to hit him—a rare occurrence indeed—before, after standing there motionless for a few beats, he just dropped to the piano bench next to Wesker, holding his head in his hands.

Wesker grinned and chuckled while running a hand over William's back. He'd won, again. Wesker  _always_  won.

"You know she was only 'hired' because she's Edward Ashford's granddaughter…" Birkin muttered dejectedly against his hands, his fingers muffling the pitiful words.

Wesker blinked. He'd never really appreciated how long Birkin's digits were, he'd bet Birkin would be a wonderful piano player if he'd ever learned.

"That so?" he asked pulling one of Birkin's hands towards him and examining the digits, disrupting the distraught covering of the boy's somewhat humiliated face. "They why did they not hire her twin brother Alfred?"

Birkin had to stop and think about that for a few moments. "Be-because...he's a worthless twit!" he declared trying to pull his wrist free from Wesker's grip.

Wesker chuckled before releasing the captive hand. "You have long fingers," he commented, showing clearly that he couldn't care less about Birkin's ridiculous competition with a girl he'd never even met. His own fingertips now absently softly pressing a few random keys on the piano.

Birkin blinked. "What?"

"You have long fingers," he repeated. "I bet you'd play beautifully." Wesker's hands were moving absentmindedly to form a series of pleasant sounding chords he didn't know he was capable of creating.

"You aren't really listening are you?" Birkin sighed.

"Well I heard everything you said, I just don't care."

"Al!" Birkin whined, shoving on Wesker's shoulder like a slighted child. "This is  _really_  distressing to me."

"I can tell," Wesker responded curtly.

Birkin sighed and leaned his head against his boyfriend's shoulder watching as Wesker stared in awe as his own hands which were calling out a quite beautiful melody form the grad piano. After a few moments of listening to the pleasant sounds as he quietly took comfort from Wesker's steady body, he spoke. " _You_  play beautifully."

Wesker didn't dare stop for fear that this nostalgic feeling that had welled up inside of him once his fingers had started milking the delicate sounds from the instrument would disappear. These blind trips deeply down memory lane usually gave him a severe headache and a horrible swirl of dark feelings in his chest, but this time, it was making him feel...wonderful. As if for once, his damaged mind was trying to recall something good instead of the horrible memories it usually dragged up to just beneath the surface of his consciousness.

"Apparently so," he whispered.

Birkin remained still for a few moments. "You didn't know?"

Wesker shook his head, knowing Birkin would understand; he always did.

Birkin nodded, fully appreciating the meaning behind Wesker's response. He was further fascinated by the complex being next to him playing the instrument as if he'd been doing it since childhood—in all reality, he probably had been.

"Scoot over," Birkin requested after a moment, shoving Wesker gently until they were sitting on different halves of the bench their shoulders gently touching.

Wesker watched Birkin curiously as he shifted through the sheets of music on the piano's built in wooden music stand. "Ah, the Moonlight Sonata, We can split the piece. You want to take the low part or the high one?" asked Birkin as he displayed the music that miraculously made perfect sense to Wesker.

"So you  _can_  play?" asked Wesker, his eyebrow's raised.

Birkin shrugged. "A bit. I'm no Beethoven, but I managed to learn amid all the other subjects I flew through. I think my parents took the term 'Renaissance Man' a bit too literally," he grumbled.

Wesker laughed. "I don't think they foresaw the study and creation of deadly 'zombie' making viruses in your future."

What else could they call the soulless, mindless reanimated monsters Tyrant turned it's victims into?

"No..." responded William slowly. "No, I don't think they did." He switched sides on the narrow bench lining his fingers up on keys required to play the higher section of the piece, and thus deciding the positioning for Wesker.

On any other occasion, the older blond would have smirked. He viewed Birkin's constant preference for the upper position in various aspects of life as compensation for how often he pinned the weaker man's body beneath his each time they had more intimate relations. However, Wesker was more concerned with Birkin's words rather than his poorly fulfilled preference for top.

Wesker regarded his partner, intrigued. It was silly really, but Wesker realized that he had never found out how Birkin had come to work for Umbrella. Surprising, since his own past with all its memory gaps was a frequently discussed topic between the two; not that Wesker was particularly pleased about that, but it was. The younger blond had just never brought his past up before.

"How did you get mixed up in this mess, Will?" questioned Wesker, curious eyes boring into the younger man through the dark lenses of his sunglasses.

Birkin just shook his head before gently picking up Wesker's hands and setting them over the proper portion of the instrument. "Later, Al."

Wesker considered pressing him for the answer, especially after that reaction, but decided to temporarily drop it in favor of their newest experiment that would reveal just how well he could actually play.

After carefully reading the first line of daintily penned music, Wesker set his fingers to the keys and tried to emulate the sounds intended by the composer. Perhaps it was the pressure placed on him to actually play a specific piece of music, maybe it was from his own self expectations, or it could have been that he was simply trying too hard. Regardless of the reason, he seriously botched his first official attempt at playing the grand piano.

Birkin giggled. "Well that certainly wasn't what I was expecting for the Great Albert Wesker who was playing so beautifully a few minutes ago."

"Shut up," Wesker growled heatedly. The last thing he needed was Birkin mocking him. Berating William was his job, not the other way around.

Wesker's second try was better, but by no means the flawlessness he typically expected from himself.

"Dammit," hissed Wesker after the third time his clumsy feeling fingers slipped onto the wrong key. He glared at Birkin as if daring him to say anything.

Birkin just smiled, holding his hands up in submission. "You're gap was prior to age ten meaning you probably haven't played in over a decade. Some practice is certainly warranted."

Wesker grumbled something unintelligible and started back to the arduous process that had come so naturally to him not ten minutes ago. If he had been any less stubborn he would have angrily stalked away. As it was, his current level of emotions wasn't helping him to get his fingers to cooperate, each new mistake further perpetuating his unhelpful bad mood.

Before Wesker could start pounding at the keys in frustration, Birkin temporarily stopped his movements. "Hold on a second," he chuckled in the other man's ear.

Wesker glowered. "I do not need you're assistance, Will. Please kindly refrain from interfering." His tone of voice added the "or else" for him.

Birkin just shook his head. "You are not going to get anywhere like that. Here."

"Will..."

Despite the warning, Birkin continued to meddle. First he pulled the piano bench out a little, then he sat him self down on the narrow seat behind Wesker, forcing the other boy to scoot forwards until he was dangerously close to falling off. Wesker wasn't sure how this was any help to his current predicament but he wasn't going to complain about the closeness of Birkin's body against his back—inwardly at least, the image he portrayed to the world, that was another story entirely.

"Dammit Will," he seethed. "How am I supposed to play with you clinging to me like a monkey?"

Birkin just rolled his eyes and snaked his hands around Wesker's chest. "By relaxing," he whispered soothingly into Wesker's ear, his hands gently running up and down the twenty year old's chest and stomach. "You'll never play all tense like this."

Wesker shivered despite himself. "Oh, so your solution is to give me a hard on? I suppose I'll play much better with that."

Birkin snorted. "There is no winning with you is there?"

"No," came the simple response given through an unseen smile.

Birkin just rested his head on Wesker's back before releasing his grip around his partner's middle so his hands and arms would be out of the way. He then started running them calmingly up and down Wesker's long back. "If you must go there, consider it motivation for finishing."

Wesker scoffed.  
"In the mean time, quit your complaining and play," laughed Birkin.

Years ago, when they had first met and gotten together, this closeness and the steady beat of Birkin's heart on his back would have done nothing but distract Wesker as he had just suggested, but now, after around four years of knowing, working along side, and sleeping with William Birkin, Wesker found this closeness to be just that: Relaxing. It was because, even after all his claims to the contrary, Wesker really, truly  _trusted_  the man sitting behind him, calming him so effectively without really even trying. Wesker would never say he really felt "safe" in Birkin's presence since it was certainly him who had more of the protective dominate role in their relationship. Perhaps "secure" or "stable"was a better word to describe how Birkin made him feel. Whatever it was, it was certainly nice.

True to Birkin's prediction, after a few minutes of practice under the soothing touches of the second youngest scientist ever to be hired by Umbrella, Wesker was playing like a professional, the hauntingly beautiful melody echoing melodically throughout bar.

Birkin stopped Wesker from playing the last bit by placing one of his hands over Wesker's. "Ready to play it with me now?"

Wesker just rolled his eyes. "Yeah, just make sure  _you_  don't screw up."

Birkin nodded and moved to once again sit next to Wesker, squeezing his shoulders affectionately before he had removed himself. Once they were both reseated they started again from the beginning the notes each of the couple's finger's brought fourth from the keys perfectly blending together in order to make up the full scope of one of Beethoven's most well known masterpieces.

It was nice, a peaceful break from the horrors downstairs in the labs associated with the creation and following experimentation of the T-Carriers and of course Lisa. To know that they could make something beautiful amidst all the filth and cruelty, even if it was small and rather insignificant in the long run, was a bit inspiring. Wesker would never see it that way, but it was nice to know that despite their all consuming power, Umbrella couldn't take everything good about the world away.

The final note of the pair's little rebellion against the company which seemed to hate absolutely everything about life caused something as totally unexpected as this music lesson had been to happen. The back wall of the bar shuttered and then, with the loud cranking of gears, receded up into the ceiling (what this did to the floor above Wesker had no idea).

Wesker and Birkin stood simultaneously, suddenly on edge.

"Well that was certainly unexpected," muttered Birkin as the dust kicked up by the shifting wall section settled.

Wesker didn't respond, instead opting to slowly move towards the open passage. Birkin quickly followed him, staying a few paces behind his braver partner.

The hidden entryway revealed a short hallway which housed an oversized statue of a woman carved of a shimmering green stone, her arms spread wide, face tilted upwards to the hidden heavens. The strange stature was situated at the end of the small corridor atop a huge pedestal so that it barely fit within the passageway. This short tunnel was mostly made of stone aside from the right side wall which was constructed of a thick glass material. It was fairly dirty, but one could still see greenery located on the other side of its transparent surface. Wesker briefly wondered if that was the outside of the mansion.

"Why do you think that's back there?" William asked as the gazed into short tunnel, his voice dropping to something akin to a whisper.

"I...don't know..." muttered Wesker. "Seems a bit strange." A pause. "But you do recall how we get to the lab every morning. This place is probably full of rooms like this."

Birkin nodded, though the thought of an unknown amount of secret rooms littered throughout the mansion containing God only knew what was more then a bit unsettling.

Deciding that it was  _probably_ safe, Wesker advanced slowly into then small passage.

"Al!" Birkin exclaimed, grabbing onto his arm. "Don't! You...you don't know what's in there."

Wesker smirked at him and slipped his arm free. "And I won't know until I check." Against Birkin's better judgment and warnings Wesker advanced into the strange secret room, Birkin nearly hanging on his coattails.

The room wasn't much to look at really. Aside from the one glass wall and the weird statue in the back, it was just a plain, small, stone hall. The only other noteworthy thing about this secret room was what looked like a glass or ceramic emblem set into the base of the statue depicting the Spencer Coat of Arms—Wesker had seen it enough times throughout the manor to recognize the design, including on a nearly identical gold emblem which sat above the fireplace in the dining hall.

All in all, Wesker was still clueless as to why Lord Spencer would request such a pointless addition to the mansion. He couldn't think of a reason for it, unless it had something to do with the room on the other side of the "see-through" wall—perhaps this was some sort of observation chamber, though he seriously doubted it.

Regardless, it was clear that the room was in great disarray and hadn't been accessed or attended to for quite some time, not that Wesker was surprised with the strange method required to grant someone entry. The glass, was so dirty that it was nigh impossible to make out anything through it, and the fact that it was cracked certainly didn't help things. Wesker coughed. Nor did the thick layer of dust. It was actually making it rather hard to breath. A series of coughs from Birkin informed the blond that he wasn't the only one suffering from the tiny hallway's poor state of disrepair.

Deciding that further investigation was pointless and that it was probably wise to get the already hacking Birkin out of this dusty hall, Wesker turned from his brief examination of the glass wall and began to leave.

"Come on, Will." He coughed again. "I doubt there is anything to be gained here." He turned at the edge of the mostly stone passage to regard the man crouched in front of the statue's base. "Besides," he teased with a grin, "don't you still owe me a reward for successfully and masterfully playing that piece of music?"

Birkin ignored the obvious request as he stifled more coughing. "Al, I think this glass piece comes out."

"So?" Wesker huffed folding his arms impatiently. "Will, get out of there. You're going to have an asthma attack."

Birkin scowled as he began to dig out the delicate emblem. "I do  _not_  have asthma, Al."

Wesker rolled his eyes. "Could have fooled me, you're allergic to pretty much everything."

"Everything with fur, Al," responded Birkin heatedly, voicing the primary reason why it was Wesker's job to handle all the research animals. "Do you see anything with fur in here? Besides, it's not the same thing."

"Arguable," sighed the other. "It produces the same symptoms and it qualifies as reversible bronchoconstriction. I'd call that asthma."

Birkin ignored the typical semi-hostile competitive banter that always flowed between the two of them because he'd managed to pull free the fragile emblem. "Got it!" he called happily.

"Good, now get your rather attractive ass over-"

Wesker's request was cut short by the deep rumbling sound of gears turning as the wall began to fall back into place. Birkin jerked up at the sound, the glass coat of arms slipping from his grip and shattering on the floor. By the time Wesker could process what had just happened the two foot thick stone wall had slammed down completely cutting him off from William.

That was cause enough for panic, but what he realized next chilled him to the core.

The nagging question of what was on the other side of the glass had finally clicked into place in his mind. Due to the layout of the mansion the only possibility was the west wing greenhouse, the same one that held the experiment known as Plant 15.

Since last April a hand full of researchers, headed up by Dr. Henry Sarton had gotten Dr. Marcus's approval to experiment on the effects of exposing various plants to the T-Virus. Plant 15 was the first viable result from this line of research.

Wesker wasn't sure of all the details surrounding this subject but he knew that the greenhouse had been temporarily locked down because it was found that Plant 15 had started releasing high amounts of airborne spores that had a severely irritating effect on the airways of a wide variety of organisms including humans. Exposure to small amounts or even moderate amounts over a short time wasn't deadly and so far, no one involved in the project had died, although Henry had come close.

The spores caused the exposed individual's airway to become swollen and irritated resulting in severe coughing, hacking, and wheezing—debilitating but hardly deadly. However, if exposed to high levels over a extended time period—say trapped in a room most likely saturated with the toxin—the victim's airway would completely seal off and they would suffocate. This process could be easily reversed with high doses of broncodilators and steroids—the treatment that had saved Dr. Sarton's life—but Wesker could hardly administer such medication with several feet of stone separating him from Birkin.

"Will!" cried Wesker slamming his hand uselessly on the thick barrier separating them. He of course got no response but he doubted that Birkin could hear him through the wall, or even if he had heard Wesker, how much longer he'd be in any shape to respond. The spore concentration in the room was probably extremely high judging by the size of the crack, the enclosed space, the amount of time they had to collect, and the fact that Wesker himself was now coughing so hard his eyes were watering.

Wesker forced his racing mind to calm. He had to think of a way out of this fast or Birkin was going to die leaving him alone to face the atrocities of the company he worked for. The thought was so unbearable it left him suddenly light headed.

Wesker shook himself. He didn't have time to dwell on that, he had to act  _now_.

The combination of the proper playing of the Moonlight Sonata and the placement of the now broken glass emblem was the trigger for opening a keeping the door open. As far as he could reason, he had two plausible options. One: he could play the piano again and hope that between the near ten seconds it took for the door to open and then the extra five seconds it took it to close again that Birkin could get himself to the door or that he could get the message to William that this is what he had to do and then just keep playing until Birkin was close enough to the door for Wesker to get him out.

That was accepting two very big ifs. First that the piano would even open the door if the emblem was not in place and second that Birkin was in any shape to get himself to the door. The first complication Wesker had to take on faith. The alternative meant that he'd never get to Birkin in time to save him which was not an option. The second question was much more concerning, considering Birkin was already practically asthmatic and was rather physically weak Wesker realized expecting him to get himself out of that room on his own was folly. That would just waste more of the precious time slipping through his fingers.

There was however, one other course of action he could think of—aside from somehow getting to the locked down greenhouse and busting through the three inch thick glass, which didn't seem very plausible. The emblem above the fireplace in the dining hall, it was the same shape, same size, same everything and he knew for a fact it could be taken out—he'd seen the mansion's caretaker remove and replace it several times in order to mess with the room's giant grandfather clock (why the two were associated, Wesker neither knew or cared). It would serve as an adequate replacement for the broken one, it  _had_  to.

Decision made, Wesker bolted. He raced out of the room, up the hallway, slammed through the door attaching the west wing to the dining hall, and skidded to a halt in front of the fireplace. Thankfully, it was late enough that no one else was around. Wesker didn't need any "concerned" bystanders slowing him down. He practically ripped the golden medallion from the mantle before sprinting back to the bar room.

The whole trip probably took him less then a minute but it was still time he didn't have. The human body could survive only around two minutes without oxygen before the brain started to die. Wesker was still quite a ways from administering the antidote to both himself and Birkin. Taking into consideration the fact that he was struggling to get enough air after his race through the hallway and that his own exposure to the toxin was much less severe than his partner's, Birkin's airway was probably already sealed shut or if not, soon to be.

All of this flashed through his mind nearly too quickly to process. Wesker could barely hear his own thoughts over the pounding in his chest as he practically fell onto the grand piano that had started it all. He swore, after he got this score right, he would never touch these black and white keys again.

Wesker took several deep wheezing breaths as he tried to fight both the panic and the tole Plant 15's spores were already having on him. If he didn't do this, if he couldn't play this piece right, his best friend and only solace in this madness would die. No pressure right? Hardly, this was possibly the most important thing he'd ever done in his life. Wesker had never imagined that of all things, such and event would come down to be playing the piano.

Wesker forced himself to sit down and then to push his surroundings, fears, and his all consuming panic from his mind until everything outside himself and this godforsaken instrument were erased from his thoughts. He focused on how it had felt to have Birkin's long fingers running over his back without thinking about the fact that he might never feel the boy's touch again; on how the notes had flowed effortlessly from his fingertips when he'd first sat down on this cursed thing; and then on the piece of music before him that he had really only successfully preformed once.

All else gone Wesker played. The notes were flat, no emotion pouring through them as it had previously. This was no longer an art form or an escape; it was a necessity and outside this need, the song no longer held a deeper meaning. No mistakes could be made, each note representing further turning of the extravagant key opening the door between him what was currently his only purpose in life. A single slip could and most likely would result in complete loss; a total failure.

Wesker lost himself in this single task, everything else in existence banished to oblivion until he heard the gears turning and felt the rumbling of the giant wall opening and the reality of the situation once again came crashing down around him. Birkin was dying, he was probably not far behind, the required treatments lay across the maze of Lord Spencer's mansion, and the only hope he had was on a single golden coat of arms he didn't even know would keep the door open.

With one final deep breath which he held in order to minimize his exposure, Wesker snatched the emblem, vaulted over the now useless piano, and ducked under stone wall before it had even finished rising.

Through every fiber of his being commanded him to run to the William's side, he made himself instead attend to the empty slot underneath the giant statue. Attending to William now would only waste time and it wasn't as if he could do anything in here for his partner anyways. Wesker mentally cursed as he heard the heavy door begin to close. If this didn't work, they were both going to die in this room.

With shaking hands, Wesker carefully pushed the crest into place. It fitted effortlessly into the slot as if it were made to go there—God he hoped that was the case. Wesker waited, it was all he could do. He felt icy despair wash over him has the heavy door continued down, mercilessly devouring the already thin rectangle of light that was the couple's only chance at escape until it completely vanished with a mighty slam.

Wesker was already feeling the fear of death the semiconscious, barely wheezing scientist who might be sharing this tomb with him had minutes ago. Then he heard the click. Wesker would have gasped in relief if it wouldn't have precipitated further exposure to the spores as the heavy wall began to open for a third and final time.

Wasting no more of the precious few minutes he had left, Wesker scrambled over to Birkin. He didn't have time to examine him here, and the more time his friend spent breathing this tainted air, the greater chance he had of dying. As it was, the only comfort offered to Wesker as he rolled over the limp unconscious body were the weak wheezes coming from the boy's swollen throat and the slight moan that escaped his lips upon being disturbed signaling that he hadn't completely lost consciousness or the full patency of his airway yet.

Still holding his breath despite his burning lungs uncaringly demanding deep gulps of the deadly air, Wesker hoisted Birkin's limp body into his arms and moved as fast as the extra weight and his tingling oxygen deprived limbs would allow towards the bar room door.

Wesker only felt mild relief as he exited the formerly comforting room and made it into the hallway where he finally allowed his irritated lungs to suck in the air they desperately needed. This violent filling and use of his own affected airway sent him into a debilitating coughing fit ending with him crashing violently into a wall until it subsided—it seemed he'd been exposed to more of the toxin than he'd realized. The gasping sounds coming from his own throat as he tried to breath were proof enough of that.

But he couldn't afford to be weak and he certainly couldn't slow down now. Birkin was already barely conscious, and if he was still breathing it was so slight the resulting oxygen delivered into his blood stream was negligible. Wesker had less then two minutes to get him breathing again.

_Move!_

The very force of the thought propelled him forwards, down the West Wing's main hall, past the small lounge, through the door at the back, and up a fight of stairs that threatened to kill him via exhaustion. From here it was a winding path through what he liked to refer to on better days as the mirror corridors and now just thought of as a confusing death trap. Then it was through another door, across a small landing, and down another flight of steps.

At this point Wesker could barely manage to get air past the suffocating block in his throat and chest, he was seeing stars and his footing was shaky at best. This final obstacle proved too difficult to attempt without faulting. Around five steps from the bottom and only seconds away from the mansion's drug room, stalked with everything he needed to reverse the process caused by Plant 15's deadly spores, Wesker fell.

It hurt as he tumbled down the final steps and smacked his head against the side railing on the way, but it was a dull pain; one that was not near as severe as it should have been. This fact sent off a massive chiming of warning bells in his head. That goddam plant was killing him and only feet away from what he needed to save himself and William.

It would have been so easy to just quit, to let himself fall into the darkness that was threatening to overwhelm him and forever escape the madness of Umbrella, but Wesker never did things the easy way. He never surrendered to anyone or anything, and the last thing he saw death as was a merciful escape; he wasn't foolish enough for that.

Giving in now would make everything he had done in his life and all the time he'd spent fighting Umbrella to stay alive and swearing revenge on the twisted company a gigantic mess of worthless, meaningless nothing. Wesker was not about to let some carelessly crafted byproduct of Umbrella kill him. Not now, not ever. That would be losing, something Wesker was incapable of doing.

_Get Up!_

Wesker's body rose from the floor. It had to. There was no other option. Operating on sheer will and determination Wesker stumbled the few steps that felt like endless miles to the door, the desperate sounds of his own strained wheezing the only noise cutting through the still air. Wesker somehow managed to get the door open. He abandoned the probably dead body at the foot of the stairs and threw himself upon the shelves containing a vast quantity of medical supplies.

It was incredible, in his current state of mind Wesker no longer had the will to care about anything past his own survival. When it was all said and done, looking back he could justify it. He could say that if he hadn't tended to himself first there was no way he could have had the ability to save his friend, but he knew it would just be a pointless lie constructed by his subconscious to ease any guilt that he might feel for ignoring all else to prolong his own life. Why deny it? The instinctual will of any creature to enter its most base level of functioning to survive was a powerful and useful tool.

As he injected the epinephrin into his thigh and breathed in the mist from the inhaler as best he could through his tight throat he knew "giving into" this instinct had saved his life.

Groaning Wesker grabbed a a few more doses of the life saving drugs and made his way back over to the limp form of his only ally in this fight against the company that tried to kill its workers on a daily basis and administered him with the same treatment. It took a while but the sudden sputtering wheeze that erupted from Birkin's throat moments later followed by the massive wave of relief that crashed down upon Wesker upon hearing it proved that Wesker's determination to survive, no matter the costs, had saved Birkin's life as well.

Once he was sure that neither of them were going suddenly get worse and stop breathing again Wesker allowed himself to collapse beside the only person aside from himself that he could honestly give a damn about.

He didn't hate or despise the side of himself that most of humanity preferred to believe makes an individual a monster. Wesker embraced it. It had just saved them both hadn't it?

Such were his thoughts as he closed his eyes and marveled at the simple fact he could breath again. Amazing how one takes such vital things for grated. His hand lain across Birkin's chest so he could feel the mimicked motions of his own chest in his partner, he allowed himself to drift into a sort of vigilant semiconscious state and remained so until he felt the body next to him shift.

"Al..?"

God he sounded awful, like he'd been sand papering his throat for the last hour or so.

"Yeah?"

Wesker winced. He didn't sound much better.

"What..." he forced out, "happened...the wall...I..."

"Umbrella tried to...kill us...again..." Wesker tried clearing his throat but it didn't help, just made him cough.

"Th...they do that a lot... I...doubt this will be the last..."

Wesker nodded his agreement through his coughs. "Greenhouse...on the other side...Plant 15..."

"Oh..." A long pause, most likely just to breath. "How'd you...get me...?" His voice cracked but he didn't have to finish the sentence for Wesker to comprehend.

"Emblem...dining room." Damn his throat hurt. "Can't talk."

Birkin nodded and squeezed his hand. "Thank you."

Wesker only made some stifled noise in response.

A few minutes passed.

"I...doubt...she'll survive long."

"Who?" Wesker choked.

"Alexia Ashford."

Wesker would have strangled him if he'd had the energy and it wouldn't undermine everything he'd just gone through. As it was, he just cuffed him painfully upside the head. Unfortunately, Birkin would  _never_  let his one sided competition with the Ashford prodigy go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well I couldn't do this section of the story without mentioning the rivalry between Birkin and Alexia. As to the whole infected plant trying to kill them bit...that just kinda happened. I'm glad it did though, it gave me a chance to really highlight Wesker's killer survival instincts and do that very interesting little piano scene.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this addition,
> 
> -Asiera


	13. PG10A/W: Exposure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ever since Alexia Ashford entered into the picture, Birkin has been obsessed with besting her in every way possible, an obsession that has persisted even a year after her accidental death in 1983. As a result, things at the underground laboratory have been chaos. Untested B.O.W.s are being produced at astounding rates and research on the Tyrant Virus has been sped up to dangerous speeds. While Wesker is sick of all of it, he never imagined the fallout form a stupid rivalry could get him killed. But after an all too inevitable exposure to T and with a successful antivirus yet to be created, it looks like that's exactly where this sick game will end.

 

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG10A/W: Exposure**

_November 16th,_ _1984; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4_

Wesker glowered as he looked down at the seemingly endless list of test results he'd need to interpret, report on, and probably replete over the course of the day in order to keep up with Birkin's ever increasing demands. Wesker sighed heatedly, unlike he had previously imagined, Birkin's obsession with besting Alexia Ashford had only increased after the incident with Plant 15 instead of dissipating as he'd hoped it would.

This unexpected turn of events could be blamed almost entirely on the fact that, for some unexplained reason, news of the newly formed competition between the Umbrella's two youngest researchers got out and become quite a hot topic within the facilities where they each worked. The daily score for who was doing what better in terms of their viral research—Birkin and Wesker or Ashford—was so heavily discussed around the mansion that one could barely go a day without hearing about it at least half a dozen times; and that was only if they were keeping up with her.

It certainly hadn't helped things that Dr. Marcus had jumped on board and was constantly demanding them to do better then the young upstart stationed at the Antarctic base. In truth, Wesker wouldn't have been surprised if the good doctor was the one keeping the rumor mill stocked in order to "motivate" Birkin and himself, but the fact was, Wesker couldn't care less about their frequently talked up "competition," and he very much doubted that Alexia did either. Wesker had little interest in further perpetuating Umbrella's ever growing stain on the world. His focus was more directed towards surviving long enough to get out.

Birkin...Birkin was another matter entirely. He already felt the sting from no longer being Umbrella's youngest and Alexia's expedient promotion to the position of Chief Senior researcher at the Antarctic branch. The added strain from everyone's ever increasing expectations and Dr. Marcus's grumbles and glares each time the brat halfway across the world came up with something better than the results at the Raccoon facility, proved to be too much for him. Within a matter of months following her hiring, Birkin had completely lost himself in their rivalry.

Sometimes Wesker felt as though Birkin had forgotten their true goal in all of this—revenge (on his part) and escape from Umbrella. He had to constantly remind himself that this was not the case. Losing himself in the research was simply Birkin's way of coping with everything around him. It was a method that Wesker would also implement occasionally, though not near to the degree of his partner; there were frequent occasions when Wesker hadn't even been able to get Birkin out of the labs for days at a time.

Other changes had flowed, not only with Birkin's personality which had become edgy, short tempered, and intolerant of even the slightest of errors, but in the very labs they worked in. In order to cope with the high demand of research and experiments made by both Birkin and Marcus, an additional research lab had been hastily constructed on the outskirts of the mansion beneath the Guard House that had earned the structure its name.

The whole place was a disaster waiting to happen, but ever since Birkin's damn obsession with besting a girl who'd never even heard of him had started, the man had been insistent upon the hiring of vast amounts of new scientist to further speed up his research on the Tyrant Virus. To Wesker's great loathing, Dr. Marcus had agreed and up went this poor excuse for an new research facility.

Located past the outer gardens, the Guard House was a conglomeration of cramped living quarters and research labs that often were paired much too closely or even combined with each other. The surprisingly large addition to the Spencer Estate was stocked with "the best scientists Umbrella could find." In reality, they were nothing short of a collection of narcissistic fools hell bent on creating the most deadly creatures they could using T, as quickly as possible, with little to no regard for safety or the repercussions of such careless research.

As it was currently, this death trap contained a colony of vicious viralized bees, mutant  _highly_ venomous giant spiders, a collection of deadly snakes of varying sizes, and Dr Sarton's research which was up to Plant 30 something. From what he'd recently heard, there were now plans to put in a gigantic shark tank...yes, a  _shark tank_  in the basement.

It was chaos.

There was little wonder why Wesker loathed going down there and even less of a question why the idea that he and Birkin were supposed to be "supervising" this madness infuriated him. As bad as that was, it was not his biggest concern right now. He had to deal with the madness within his own lab.

After a few angry mutterings, Wesker turned back to the giant test tube before him containing the rather nasty looking experiment that was his first order of business this morning: The Hunter-α or MA-121. This monster, developed in 1981, represented the first of the B.O.W.s created solely by Wesker and Birkin and William's first success in his war with the Ashfords.

It was a rather nasty looking creature with its hunched, heavily built, reptilian form standing about four and a half feet from the ground. Green thick scales covered the majority of its body, providing a natural armor that made it difficult for a variety of weapons to pierce its hide.

The end of each of its long muscled arms blossomed into a series of razor sharp, six inch claws that were mimicked on the creature's talon-like feet. These deadly slashing blades were the creature's primary weapons and could be used to rip pray open within seconds.

The monster's head was drawn tightly into its body with nothing anyone could identify as a neck. The majority of the face was taken up by its mouth, filled with rows of needle like teeth perfect for digging into the unprotected flesh of its pinned victims.

Large closely set eyes, which allowed it excellent vision even in the dimmest of light, if open, would have relieved themselves as bright yellow orbs split by lizard-like slits. These, in combination with an uncanny sense of smell and an unyielding instinct to capture and savagely rip apart its pray, had earned this monster the apt name, Hunter.

The abomination was created by first implanting a human ovum with a deadly cocktail of reptile DNA and then administering the virus. What resulted was a test tube grown killing machine that took only three months to mature. It was a highly successful B.O.W. that was being mass produced in many of Umbrella's labs all over the world.

After this first success, others had followed at an astounding rate, including Cerberus—the T-exposed reanimated dogs with their rigid muscle structure showing through poorly held together sheets of ragged hanging skin—and many other twisted, deadly, uncontrollable monsters.

It seemed in their new line of research, raw power and a high kill rate took priority over control and caution, which Wesker accurately predicted would lead to disaster.

Despite all the madness now swarming around him in droves, mostly centered around Birkin, Wesker had endured. What choice did he have? As far has he knew, none, and he had continued in this way of thinking for two whole years, putting up with all the danger and sleepless nights until finally, the cause of all their problems simply disappeared.

In December of 1983, little twelve year old Alexia Ashford died in a "tragic" accidental exposure to her own virus: The T-Veronica which she had constructed by mixing Tyrant with an ancient virus she'd discovered within a fossilized queen ant. It was a sad day for Umbrella, but cause for celebration for most everyone at the Raccoon facility, especially Birkin. Wesker had also rejoiced. He had put up with the fallout from their moronic competition for far too long and took comfort in the fact that it was finally over...or so he'd thought.

Much to Wesker's dismay, his partner's obsession had persisted long past Alexia's death. In fact, it was almost as if nothing had changed, making December of that year particularly hellish for Albert.

This blatant disregard for anything aside from his research and had caused a deep rift to begin to develop between himself a Birkin, one that would have probably driven them apart...were it not for what Wesker would forever after refer to as "the Exposure."

To this day, Wesker still remembered every detail of how it felt to have that glass viral container shatter under his hands and feel the glass cut into his skin, sending the virus rushing through his blood stream.

"The Exposure" was an event that Wesker would one day look back on with the realization that this one simple accident; this tiny little fluke, is what saved him from certain demise in the years to come and enabled him to fully realize his destiny to become the equivalent of the "god" he now viewed himself as. Though when it happened, all Wesker could see was the end; the end of everything he'd worked for and the death he'd fought with all he had to avoid. In truth, it was this mistake that would forever bind him to Umbrella's dark path, making actual escape from the company that was destroying his humanity impossible.

* * *

_November 19th,_ _1984; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4_

Wesker couldn't force his suddenly tight throat to make a sound. All he could do was stare down at the glass shards and his own blood mixed with the deadly blue serum containing the latest strain of the Tyrant Virus. Wesker couldn't think; couldn't process what had just happened.

After everything he'd been through; all the precautions he'd painstakingly taken; all the deadly experiments he'd helped create that could have easily ripped him apart, to be killed by a simple uneven surface of the floor? It was absurd; impossible!

But it wasn't. The entire unavoidable truth was scattered and splashed across the lab table before him like some tragedy or sick form of poetic justice. A trip. A simple stumble that was all it took to end him and his far away dreams of revenge on all of Umbrella.

All he'd have had to do was to let himself fall to the floor. The worst results would have been skinned knees, bruises and maybe a few jarred joints, but he'd caught himself. He'd caught himself on a lab table filled with the sealed cylinders containing the delicate twisting, double helix-like tubes filled with the T-Virus. His hand and the force behind it had easily shattered the contaminated glass, which in turn, dug deeply into his palm, unquestionably infecting him with the pathogen he'd exposed so many others to, and dooming him to their same grim fate.

Wesker didn't know how long he just stood there, staring at the mess on the lab table. He'd never felt so helpless in his life. There was absolutely  _nothing_  he could do, no way to fix or reverse what had just happened.

It was over.

It was just that simple.

"Will..." he eventually managed to force out. His voice sounded desperate, almost pleading. Despite the hopelessness of the situation, he still found it in himself to be disgusted by this show of weakness. If he was going to die, he wasn't going to do it trembling and sobbing in a corner. Finding at least some comfort in the ability to control that aspect of the situation, Wesker forced all emotion from his voice and face. "Will, we have a Biohazard."

"What?!" came the partly panicked, partly put off response for the other side of the lab. In all their years working here, neither of them had ever initiated such an event—well unless you counted Wesker's near death via an uncaged Lisa, the undead slug that had nearly eaten Birkin's face, and the exposure to the spores released by Plant 15. Birkin couldn't even imagine what Wesker could be referring to and he certainly didn't want to try. Each of those experiences had been traumatic and highly life threatening and were something neither of the two wanted to relive.

"A viral container broke," stated Wesker as if he was just reading off another result from their multitude of daily tests.

Birkin froze in his tracks. That could be bad, very bad. T wasn't airborne, but still, depending on how it was broken... Birkin shook his head. Wesker didn't sound upset or panicked, meaning there must not be any real reason to feel alarmed. Birkin assured himself with such words. This would probably only serve as an annoyance, an unexpected and time consuming delay in their precious research-

His thoughts screeched to a complete halt as he rounded the corner and saw the undeniable facts of what had just occurred. The blood, Wesker's hand, the shattered vial, and the stoic acceptance on Wesker's features forcing William to accept a truth every fiber of his being was rejecting with all its might.

Wesker was infected.

The thought almost caused Birkin's body to drop to the floor as if the sturdy strings that had been holding him up the entire time had suddenly been cut. In truth, they had. If he lost Wesker, lost the only partner, safety, and solace he had in this chaos around him...he'd break, there was no other possibility. Birkin grabbed a nearby chair in order to compensate for the lack of support provided by his suddenly weak, shaking legs.

For a while, they just stared at each other, Wesker's stormy hidden eyes boring into Birkin's wide sapphire ones as though he was asking Birkin to fix it, to offer up some solution he hadn't seen before he fully gave into the bleak reality that he was going to die...or worse, become the a part of experiments he'd spent the last seven years preforming.

Birkin took a deep breath, after everything that Wesker had done for him, all the times the older blond had saved Birkin from exposure to the virus, death, or some combination there of, failing his partner now was  _not_  an option. There was hope...even if it was slim. Wesker would not die; William wouldn't let him

The look that suddenly came over the other scientist's previously terror filled features; the sheer determination replacing all traces of fear and uncertainty, was something Wesker had never seen in the boy before. I almost made him believe that Birkin really could do something to save him, even though he knew the situation was hopeless.

"Take off your lab coat, don't let any more of the contaminate touch you, and then place it on the lab table over the spill," Birkin ordered in the strongest voice Wesker had ever hear him use.

Due to the sheer strength behind the order, Wesker found himself complying before he'd even fully thought it through. It was true that the best decontamination for the T-Virus was still incineration, or saturation with bleach or some other form of disinfectant. As long as the contamination was contained, it was fairly easy to eliminate. However, though the virus had only gotten on his hand and lab coat sleeve, as far as he knew, he was a walking time bomb and, if not already, soon to be highly contagious. He wasn't sure of the point in all this, but in the end, he decided to follow Birkin's directions for the time being.

Once Wesker had finished with Birkin's directions, the younger scientist then took off his own jacket and threw it to him. "Wrap that around your effected arm. You are going to the decontamination chamber."

Wesker opened his mouth to protest, it wouldn't do him any good. Unlike last time, the virus was already in his blood stream not just on his body. But any attempts from Wesker to argue back were cut off by the suddenly very changed Birkin.

"Al, go!" he yelled, pointing to the door's located near the lab's exit. "Now!"

Wesker stared at his partner's strangely stern features for a few moments. When he looked close enough, past his clenched fists, set jaw, and hard eyes he could identify the terror that was still lining his friend's features. The fact that Birkin had somehow found the courage to push through, even if his attempts were futile, was enough to get Albert into the decontamination chamber.

Once completely bare, his clothes disposed of in a bag set for incineration, and standing under the heavy stream of scalding hot water, Wesker held up his bleeding hand so he could fully appreciate the damage that had been done. The cuts were deep and jagged with some pieces of the strangely shaped glass still embedded in his flesh.

Carefully and methodically, Wesker began removing the pieces, wincing as each shard was pulled from the tender red wound before gingerly placing them in the same biohazard bin into which his clothes had been discarded.

Wesker had only just finished cleaning the throbbing gash when Birkin came slamming through the metal doors and into the steamy room.

Wesker blinked in shock at this sudden very anti-protocol intrusion by the other scientist. "Will, what are you doing?"

Birkin held up a vile identical to the one Wesker had broken minutes ago except that the liquid twisting in the glass channels inside the cylindrical shell were a bright green instead of the electric blue that had mixed with his crimson blood.

Wesker's eye brow's knitted together. He'd never seen...whatever that was before and stepped back despite himself in apprehension for what other horrors might be contained behind the glass. "What is that, Will?"

"An antivirus," stated Birkin hurriedly as he attached the canister to the painfully large three pronged needle model they used when infecting test subjects.

Wesker's eyes went wide and he felt his heart skip a beat, hope beginning to rekindle within his chest. "A what?" he gasped.

"Antivirus," Birkin repeated. "It's..." his hands were shaking. "Oh god, Al, it's only experimental, a side project! I never even got around to testing it one a live subjects, let alone humans! There has just been so much else going on...and...I..." All of Birkin's previous power was gone, leaving him looking as though he was about to cry. "Oh God I'm so sorry...b-but it's the only chance you've got now...a-and the sooner we get it i-in the higher ch-chance you have..." He didn't just look like he was going to start crying anymore.

Wesker remained still for a few moments, just staring at the trembling man before him. Part of him was furious because he knew something as important as developing an antivirus would not have been put off until now if it hadn't been for the blasted challenge Birkin had still been trying to win despite the fact that the competition had been dead for a nearly a year. The other half didn't care. There was a chance, a chance he wouldn't die here. No matter what it was, he'd take it.

"Dammit, Al!" cried Birkin. " _Please_ let me try to save you!"

Birkin's shout snapped the older blond black to reality and he immediately stepped out of the pounding water and extended his arm out to his partner.

Birkin let out a sigh load enough to be a sob before he grabbed Wesker's wet arm and began rapidly drying it. Once he was satisfied with the abused pink skin he scrubbed the area again with an alcohol pad and then lined up the shaking needle with Wesker forearm. The man nearly jumped when Wesker reached up to steady his hard. Birkin met his friend's eyes for a brief moment before Wesker nodded and together they slid the needles home and injected the green tinged liquid into Wesker's body.

The silence that stretched between them was almost unbearable. The constant pounding of the scalding water was on the cement floor and the heavy steam air choking them were all Birkin tried to force himself to focus on. He couldn't look Wesker in the eye, couldn't handle the fact that his blasted obsession with a dead twelve year old had been the primary cause of this situation. He blamed himself. How could he not? If he had been focused on...on  _anything_ else besides what was happening in Antarctica, he would not put off the development of the antivirus so long. Furthermore, if they weren't so swamped with his daunting level of experiments that  _he'd_ ordered, vials of the T-Virus wouldn't have been left so carelessly on the table. This  _was_  his fault.

"What about Dr. Marcus?" inquired Wesker slowly, breaking the painful silence. "You know the protocols. Once he finds out I'm infected, I'll be initiated into the experiments." Wesker's words were like knives into Birkin's chest.

Birkin found himself finally letting go of the breath he'd been holding ever since he'd injected Wesker with the barely tested antivirus that might or might not end up killing him just as effectively as Tyrant would.

"H-he won't," swore Birkin adamantly. "I'll decontaminate the lab with bleach instead of burning it and we'll proceed as if nothing is amiss." Birkin had never been so grateful that Dr. Marcus was too paranoid to put cameras in the labs.

Wesker shook his head. "That will increase your chances of getting infected exponentially. I can't just walk around as if-"

"I don't care about the risks, Al!" yelled Birkin interrupting him. "I am  _not_  loosing you. Not like this. Not after everything you've done for me; after everything we've been through! And if I get infected because of it, so be it! It'd be my own damn fault! Don't you remember what I said? We can't do this alone..." He trailed off, no longer able to meet Wesker's eyes. "I can't do this alone..."

Wesker opened his mouth but then relented with a sigh. Birkin's last words were pitiful; weak. He  _needed_  Wesker, that much was clear beyond a doubt. The power amounted by those words to Wesker was welcome in this new world where his life was on the brink of being extinguished.

"And if the serum doesn't work," he inquired unemotionally.

Birkin winced, knowing fully whose shoulders that blame would fall on. "Than...than I'll keep working on it. We'll keep working on it. The...the shortest time for an infected individual to turn was seven days. We...we have time..." Birkin wanted to run to Wesker, to hold him; a reassurance they both desperately needed, but not only did he know doing so was now a great risk to himself—especially since Wesker was still actively bleeding—but he didn't feel worthy of the contact right now.

Wesker sighed heavily again. Seven days wasn't a lot, but it was much better than the hopelessness that was Wesker's outlook two minutes ago. "Alright," was all he managed to say.

Birkin closed his eyes for a few moments and nodded. "I promise you, Al. You're  _not_  going to die. This  _will_ work."

* * *

 _November_ 21st _, 1984; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4_

The antivirus didn't work.

The miraculous part was that it didn't have to.

Wesker was pacing up and down the narrow hallways in the lab formed by the work stations and gigantic rows of B.O.W. containing test tubes, praying that he wouldn't soon be joining the grotesque specimens. So far he hadn't experienced any of the symptoms associated with the virus—well, aside from a shorter temper, a high anxiety level, and a case of skin crawling itches all of which Birkin claimed Wesker had caused through his own fears of becoming infected. William's conclusion made sense and Wesker desperately wanted to believe it; believe that the antivirus had worked, but it was hard to be optimistic when he was infected with something that had a hundred percent kill rate and no proven cure. Wesker glanced down at his watch, a frequent habit as of late. Less than five days...that's all the time they had if Birkin's experimental cure was a failure.

Wesker's shaded eyes traveled back to the corner where Birkin was preparing the slide of his blood to be examined under the electron microscope. God he couldn't wait anymore! He had to know now if he was going to live or...or if he was five days, eight hours, and twenty six minutes away from becoming an addition to their horde of walking dead.

Wesker continued this fretful pacing, occasionally scratching at his arms where his lab coat rubbed and cursing every time he did. Finally, he saw Birkin put the slide under the scope and found himself holding his breath. Each second Birkin stared deeply into the molecular structure of the red smear dragging on into whole eternities as Wesker desperately awaited the interpretation upon which his very life was hinged.

Finally, William pulled back from the eyepiece, brows knitted together in what looked to be confusion.

That could not be a good sign.

"Well?!" demanded Wesker much louder than he'd intended, causing Birkin to jump.

Birkin met Wesker's eyes, reading the vast flood of emotions even his dark lenses and fortified mask couldn't hide; not from him anyways. "There's nothing, Al."

Wesker's heart felt like it fell to a region near his feet. He swallowed, barely managing to control his voice. "No antivirus levels."

Five days, eight hours, and twenty three minutes.

Birkin shook his head quickly causing Wesker to collapse into the chair he'd been avoiding for the last few days due to the slight possibility of contamination via touching his body.

"No, Al," Birkin corrected quickly, "you don't understand. There's  _nothing_ , no antivirus levels but no T-Virus either!"

Wesker's heart and stomach continued to do an uncomfortable series of flip flops that he was trying hard to prevent showing. "Wha...I don't...Will that's impossible! I was infected! We know this!"

Birkin nodded his rapid agreement. "I know, Al! But now...now you're not. I can't explain it. There are no antiviral levels in your system so it wasn't the cure."

"Move!" Wesker commanded with such force that Birkin was sure he'd push him out of his chair if he didn't—that would have been the first contact he'd have had with Wesker since he injected him with his "cure" two days ago.

Birkin quickly moved out of Wesker's way who ripped of his sunglasses and threw himself on the microscope making that the first bit of lab equipment he'd touched since the nineteenth. Wesker stared into the sample of his own blood in shock. Nothing...absolutely nothing. It was normal. There was no sign that he'd  _ever_   _been_  infected.

Birkin watched as his friend's form went from rigid to relaxed, so much his arms almost collapsed, back to being completely stiff again.

"Another sample." His voice strangely even.

"What?" blinked Birkin who wanted nothing more then to just throw his arms around Wesker and be grateful for whatever miracle had transpired.  
"We need another damn sample!" screamed Wesker, obviously beside himself at the moment—not that Birkin blamed him, he just hated seeing Wesker like this. "This...the..." He swallowed, reigning in his unpredictable emotions. "One sample is not conclusive!"

Birkin nodded, holding his hands up in submission. "Okay Al, we'll take another sample."

Wesker held his head, squeezing the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger in an effort to alleviate the uncomfortable level of pressure pounding beneath his temples. "Just...just get me another kit," he requested, exhaustion showing through in his voice; unsurprising as Wesker hadn't been able to really sleep since the incident.

Wesker was left alone with his thoughts while Birkin left to get the equipment necessary to repeat the test. Wesker tried to think; tried to reason out why the results had been what they were, but the only thought pounding through his head was a single word:  _Impossible!_

Apparently it wasn't. A second and third examination of his blood yielded the same results, and what came next was even more astounding.

In an effort to explain what was going on, Birkin suggested exposing a sample of Wesker's blood to the Tyrant Virus. Wesker, perhaps even more desperate than William to understand the reason he wasn't dying right now, had of course agreed. Several hours later the two were staring down into a double headed microscope in awe at the impossible events that were occurring.

Tyrant was usually, as its name suggested, ruthless when invading a host's cells. A typical case showed massive cellular invasion and viral replication levels within hours of infection. Since their experiments with strengthening the virus, this deadly attribute had only intensified. But this time, even three hours after the sample of Wesker's cells had been introduction to the T-Virus and no antivirus had been introduced, they remained completely unchanged; no genetic mutation; no viral replication; no cellular invasion. Even more shocking, Wesker seemed to have developed some rudimentary antibodies the the virus that despite in depth study, had nothing to do with Birkin's first botched attempt at an antivirus.

For the life of them, neither scientist could explain it and Wesker refused to even think about leaving the lab until they had found out why. For him. It wasn't real and he wasn't safe until they could understand both the why and the how of this mind boggling turn of events. Such a complex endeavor took them until the next morning before if finally clicked in Birkin's suddenly un-groggy mind.

"You're immune to Ebola!" he cried out, pulling his face from the gigantic microscope before him.  
"What?" called Wesker in confusion from his own work station.

Birkin scrambled over to him. "Inherited immunity! You have inherited immunity to Ebola!"

Wesker froze as the reality dawned on him. "Our latest strains of T were spliced with Ebola to up the infection rate and tenacity..."

Birkin nodded his head enthusiastically.

Recently, Umbrella had added the viral cause of hemorrhagic fever to their list of deadly pathogens undergoing research. Surprisingly, they'd gotten the samples from Africa "legally" by claiming to be working on a cure for the devastating disease, when in reality, they were only studying its potential as a biological weapon, and more recently, been augmenting Tyrant with it.

The legal means of acquisition got the corporation funding and supplies meant for the development of a vaccine—not that Umbrella needed any extra money or lab equipment. The most important thing Umbrella acquired from the move was increased support from the clueless sympathetic masses, members of whom were frequently used to stock its test tubes.

"That's...highly unlikely, Will," Wesker said slowly, reasoning through the proposal. "Look at me? Do I look of African decent to you? It makes no sense that I'd have an immunity to a virus discovered in the Zaire region of Africa."

Birkin hesitated. "That's true but...but the Marburg virus—a cousin of Ebola—traces its origins back to Europe, so it is possible that..." Birkin trailed off and then slammed his hand down on the desk causing his partner to startle slightly. "Hell, Al, I don't  _care_  why you're immune. The fact is, Ebola can't enter your cells and neither can the latest strain of Tyrant with which we spliced it. The virus can't replicate so it dies and you're...you're okay..."

Wesker stood, sighing. "Yes but-"

"No!" Birkin yelled. "That's it! End of the fucking discussion! You're  _okay_! That's all that matters!"

Wesker was a bit floored by such an admission for the man whose entire world had revolved around besting the currently dead Alexia Ashford for the past three years. It was...almost touching.

For a few beats, the two just stared at one another, complete silence—aside from the constant ambient noise of the lab—enveloping them before Wesker broke it. "No it isn't, Will," he stated, arms folded. "Because the only natural immunity I'm aware for either strain is a mutation in the NPCI gene which ends up producing a very debilitating disease, which by now, I think I'd know if I had. Furthermore, temporarily ignoring the question of  _why_  I was immune, I've generated antibodies, antibodies that can be used to prefect an actual antivirus, which is why this conversation is fare from ov-."  
Wesker's speech was adequately cut off as Birkin practically accosted him, lips slamming into Wesker's own stopping him for uttering another syllable. It took a bit of coaxing before Wesker actually parted his lips, allowing Birkin's tongue the access it requested and even a small portion of the dominance it always uselessly fought for.

Once Birkin was fairly certain that Wesker wouldn't just start back off where he'd been "rudely" interrupted and William had finished relishing in the first real contact they'd had since exposure, he pulled slowly back, just enough to allow him room to speak. "Yes. It. Is." Birkin said, slowly and firmly into Wesker's ear before nipping it. "You're alive and you're going to stay that way. Right now, I wouldn't care if the fucking Virgin Mary came down and blessed the virus away in your sleep."

Birkin certainly had an interesting take on the Catholic religion he'd been raised in to.

"All those other, far less pressing matters, can wait until tomorrow. All I care about right now is  _you_. You not dying. I..." he looked away from a, by now, highly amused Wesker, "...I don't know what I'd do without you."

Wesker's rather feline grin widened and he twined his fingers around Birkin's waist, all tension and fear completely drained from the situation. "Lose yourself in pointless competitions with little dead twelve year old girls," he answered scathingly.

Birkin glared at Wesker's black shoes. "Look, I get it alright? I was stupid and this was all my fault!" He paused, his slight form starting to tremble slightly. "N-never mind." Feeling absolutely horrible and completely guilt wracked—something he'd been holding back for the sake of being competent in his quest to save Wesker—Birkin tried to push back.

His efforts were far from successful as Wesker's much stronger arms held him securely in place, his hands pressing firmly into the small of William's back.

After a few moments of useless struggling, Birkin chanced a glance up at the softly grinning devil holding him captive.

"As long as you understand that," Wesker purred, "than I think we can move on."

Far from the words Birkin had been hoping for, the man again tried to break free to no avail. "Do you have to be such a bastard, Al?!" he hissed. "I already feel awful about the entire thing! What do you want?! Me to infect myself so I know how it feels?!"

Wesker's eyes narrowed to slits, his grip tightening painfully around Birkin. "I could hit you for saying something so flagrantly stupid," he growled causing Birkin to wince and shy away. Seeing this, Wesker loosened his death grip, just not enough to allow William to escape. "But I think we've both been through enough as of late."

Birkin slowly relaxed, before eventually letting himself collapse into Wesker. "I'm so sorry, Al," he muttered into Wesker's lab coat.

Wesker sighed, moving one of his hands up from William's waist and into messy hair. "As much as I hate to say it, I believe you are being too hard on yourself."

Birkin smiled from his position. "As if I'd believe  _that_."

Wesker chuckled low in his throat. "Perhaps not." A pause. "But honesty, Will, this 'ability' you have to completely lose yourself in your research...it has the potential to get you killed."

"As long as I have you to snap me out of it, I think I'll live," responded Birkin.  
"Oh, that so?" laughed Wesker. "Well than, I suggest you don't get rid of me anytime soon."

Birkin nodded. "I wouldn't dream of it. Just...please do it in a way that doesn't come this close to giving me a heart attack next time."

"I believe we could both benefit from that," muttered Wesker, crooking a finger under his partner's chin so that he was forced to look up him, flicking a bit of his straw colored hair out of his face with his other hand. "It's getting quite long," Wesker commented in response to yet another aspect of his life Birkin had let slide.

The younger scientist rolled his eyes. "I'll cut it tomorrow, alright?"

"Hnn...you will also have to shave  _properly_  and shower, I'm getting tired of living with a man who looks as though he's trying to emulate Doctor Marcus on a bad day in regard to his looks."

Birkin jerked his head back in mock anger. "You think I look like Doctor Marcus?"

"No," admitted Wesker. "But I'd say you're on the path to his long haired mad scientist appearance."

"..." Birkin just stared at him more than a bit put off. "Well then, I suppose I should thank you further for crushing those vials."

Wesker glowered slightly. "Don't push it."

The older blond sighed heavily, running a hand through the stiff strands of his own hair as he took in the mess they'd left the lab in. "Come on, the sooner we clean this up, the sooner we can get out of here. I believe I've seen enough of this place to last me a lifetime and been through enough to earn a break."

"Agreed," nodded Birkin happily dashing off to clean up anything that, left untended, could lead to further biohazards—they'd both had enough of those as of late.

After a few minutes of quiet cleaning, Birkin glanced over his shoulder at Wesker who was addressing everything he touched with added caution. "Al, you do no we have to come back tomorrow, right?"

Wesker growled as he proceeded to erase all traces of his very special blood makeup. "You just had to remind me didn't you?"

"Something like that," laughed Birkin.

* * *

_November 21st_ _, 1984; Spencer Estate_

Wesker readjusted his back slightly against the head board of what once had been his bed, and long ago become his and Birkin's. Ever since the two of them had cleaned up the B4 level of the lab—a difficult task to be sure—and themselves—especially Birkin who had quite a bit of self maintenance to catch up on—the couple had been laying in the gigantic king sized bed of their estate quarters. Each of them were deeply lost in their own private thoughts, taking some measure of comfort from the partial safety of their private room and each other's presence.

Birkin looked up at the stoic blond holding him securely against his toned chest. It was reassuring to feel the steady beating of his partner's heart on his back and to know that there wasn't  _currently_  any significant risk of it stopping anytime soon.

Eventually Wesker felt Birkin's sapphire eyes on him and pulled himself from the distant place his mind had wandered to in favor of meeting those eyes. Stopping the rhythmic movement of his hand over Birkin's side, he stared down at his partner's rather pensive face.

Secretly, Wesker never tired of the expression that overtook Birkin's features whenever he was mentally battling with one or more of the conundrums that forever seemed to plague his ever active mind. During these moments, William's eyebrows would knit together, his sharp nose would wrinkle slightly, and a faint grimace would tug at the left corner of his lips. Depending on the level to which Birkin was confounded, he would eventually begin to chew on his lower lip. Though he'd  _never_  admit to it, Wesker found this attribute to be exceedingly adorable—a word Wesker never recalled having used in his life and furthermore, had no desire to.

Once he'd gotten enough amusement from studying his colleague's expression. Wesker spoke, his tome teasing. "Something wrong, Dearheart?"

Birkin relaxed ever so slightly at the use of Wesker's favorite pet name before slowly shaking his head. "No...it's just...well..." He sighed and much to Wesker's private satisfaction, briefly bit his bottom lip. "What are you going to do?" he inquired slowly. "You know, after?"

"After?" repeated Wesker, perplexity showing in his unshaded eyes.

"After we get out. I know it won't happen anytime soon, probably not even in the foreseeable future," he clarified quickly in order to prevent Wesker from saying something rather negative as was his usual habit when responding to such questions. "But, if— _when_ we do, what then?"

Wesker paused, he fingers which had moved down to toy with the hem of Birkin's shirt ceasing in their activity. Wesker had always been so focused on revenge and escape that he never really thought about what he'd do afterwards. He had no idea, and for someone who took great comfort from having every possible contingency planned out in great detail, that was not a pleasant realization to come to.

He couldn't ever see himself in a normal job, nor could he imagine living out the rest of his days in "luxury" on some private beach with the funds he planned to acquire from the pharmaceutical giant prior to its destruction. Honestly, and this was a chilling thought, Wesker couldn't picture himself doing anything differently than he was now.

Before Umbrella had reentered his life in 1977 he'd just been moving forwards with no true goal in mind; jumping through every hoop set before him as though on autopilot. Umbrella had given him a purpose, and while it was horrible to think that he'd be doing some variant of his current life for all eternity, it was just as distressing to revert back to how it had been before Umbrella had hired him: Purposeless.

"I...don't know," Wesker admitted quietly. "It's hard to imagine anything beyond this...what we're doing now, I mean."

Birkin nodded, smiling softly. "Same here."

Silence fell again, Wesker's demand to plan out every action and possibility forcing his mind to ponder the unpleasant subject. Finally, not wanting to continue to come up with the same blanks and the same unanswerable questions, Wesker quickly switched gears.

Suddenly, Birkin found himself being none too gently flipped off of Wesker, his back hitting the mattress with a muffled thunk. Before he could accurately interpret what happened, Wesker was leaning over him, slipping easily between his knees, his face and body hovering mere inches above a reasonably shocked Birkin.

"I may be unsure of what I'm going to do after I  _dismantle_ Umbrella, but I  _do_  know what I'm going to do now..." Wesker purred against Birkin's neck.

Birkin shivered and placed his arms around Wesker's shoulders as Wesker started to unbutton his shirt in a painfully slow fashion. "I think I could wager a guess as to where this is going," he muttered as he allowed Wesker to continue to toy with the row of buttons that suddenly seemed much longer than it did every morning when he got dressed.

"Hnn, I should hope so," replied Wesker after he'd finally opened the impeding clothing article and was softly tracing the lines of his partner's ribcage with gentle fingers.

Birkin's pleasurable shivers increased, this time accompanied by an outbreak of goosebumps across his chest and arms.

"Aren't you thankful?" gasped Birkin after a particularly fierce kiss had passed between the two.  
Wesker cocked his head to the side. "Thankful for what," he inquired almost boredly as he set about removing his own black shirt.

"That you are totally immune and not a carrier," murmured Birkin, helping Wesker toss aside the the currently unneeded garment.

Wesker paused in his actions, Half naked body poised above Birkin's equally bare one, then he started to laugh in that deep chuckle that always drove William crazy. "Yes," he agreed with a grin. "That would be very unfortunate for the both of us."

"I'd be infected before the end of the week," Birkin joked rather seriously.

"Ha!" laughed Wesker. "Do you think I really have so little control of my body?"

Birkin grinned. "No...no I don't  _think_ so," he teased.

"Hmm..." murmured Wesker, pretending to be in serious thought. "I believe you're being a tad too cheeky for your own good."

"Perhaps it's intentional," ventured the man pinned beneath the blond, running his hands firmly over Wesker's thighs.

Wesker closed his eyes for a moment in response to the touch. "Purposely pissing me off before I fuck you? How is that wise for someone with oh so little pain tolerance? Hmm?"

Birkin shrugged as he toyed with Wesker's belt loops. "Weren't you the one who said I was a masochist?"

"No," corrected Wesker, inhaling sharply when Birkin's hand traveled dangerously close to the rather prominent bulge in his jeans, "I believe I told you that it would behoove you to become one."

"Oh," giggled Birkin, his delicate fingers unbuttoning his pants and then slipping past the waistband of Wesker's boxers. "My mistake."

Wesker let a quiet moan escape his lips at the contact of Birkin's fingers to the cone of heat trapped beneath the fabric and dug his fingers deeply into the sheets and William's hair. "What say you we continue this conversation at a different time?" Wesker managed in a strained voice as a grinning Birkin continued his antics.

"I think you just proved my earlier point," Birkin teased.

Wesker managed to glare before yanking his colleague's hand out of his trousers and pinning it to the mattress. "Perhaps...but now allow me to prove mine," hissed Wesker moving in extremely close to Birkin's flushed face.

"Which one?" gasped Birkin, manipulating him hips and legs helpfully in response to Wesker's tug on his pants until they too had joined the pile of removed clothing on. the floor.

"The one about it not being a good idea to piss me off before I fuck you," responded Wesker dangerously, adjusting his hands down to grasp Birkin's knees, moving them up and then out to allow himself better access.

"I await the lesson with bated breath," panted Birkin in response.

Wesker chuckled. "I can only imagine."

Shortly after, the two easily fell back into the heated sensual dance they had perfected over the years; bodies easily melding into one; all thoughts of unmade future plans, past guilt, and "dead" little twelve year old girls long forgotten in exchange for the raging pleasurable heat and pressure currently enveloping them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I almost did this as a flashback about Wesker's exposure in what will now be PG11A/W, but in the end, I figured that this was way too important of a piece to limit to a mere flash back so I decided to give "The Exposure" its own chapter.
> 
> The next chapters will be the last of the Second Cycle as well as the end to the Wesker/Birkin chapters. For some of you I know that'll be disappointing and for others I'm sure you'll be pleased that we're this much closer to the Wesker/Chris section. Either way, know the separation is on the near horizon.
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you enjoyed this addition,
> 
> -Asiera


	14. PG11A/W: Jealousy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things have settled down since Wesker's exposure. The Guard House is still down right insane, Dr. Marcus is still pretending he can order Wesker and Birkin around, and they're still working with deadly viruses. But all in all, it's a far cry from where they were a few years ago. Things would be great...that is, if Birkin hadn't agreed to the assignment of a glorified lab assistant to their personal laboratory, especially seeing as how she seems to have eyes for things that are exclusively Wesker's...

 

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG11A/W: Jealousy**

_March 17th_   _, 1986; Spencer Estate Guard House Basement:_

"I severely dislike that woman." Wesker's gaze was pensive as he stared into the dark water contained within the near three story, over fifteen million gallon tank taking up the majority of the basement beneath the additional facility's main structure.

Umbrella was known for its unique, rather insane grandness, but this latest addition possibly topped that unreal list of impossibilities. The god sized aquarium was used to house the five T-Virus exposed great white sharks, one of whom was beginning to quickly surpass the size typical to most members of its species due to the infection.

"Who?" Birkin questioned glancing over at his stoic partner from his former position of leaning over the railing so that he could more clearly see the deadly water bound creatures.

"Your new 'lab assistant,'" glowered Wesker as the largest of the sharks swam past them, multiple rows of serrated teeth glinting in the eerie light.

For some inadequately explored reason the researcher in charge of this particular project had named this creature—his most promising subject—"Neptune." The names the other scientists, including Birkin, gave to the monstrosities they were so eager to create usually made perfect sense to Wesker, but Neptune? It just sounded ridiculous, like a name you'd give a pet rather than a deadly two ton creature that would be very pleased to eat you and its creator for lunch.

"Annette?" puzzled Birkin in confusion.

Wesker's glare deepened. "Yes, Doctor Sparks." He actually felt the railing he was gripping shudder as the behemoth went by; either that or he was grabbing onto it too firmly due to his anger...probably the former, Wesker wasn't  _that_  strong.

It didn't help things that his mood was further darkened by the fact that they were down here in this veritable death trap. Even though things had quieted down in the main labs beneath the estate after Wesker's exposure two years ago, the atmosphere in the Guard House was still plain old insane, and Wesker still hated every bit of it with a passion. But it was not Wesker's loathing of the added on facility and the crazed Umbrella scientists that refused to heed his demands regarding safety precautions that was infuriating him at the moment. No, the source of his displeasure was much closer to home.

It was all fine and good that these loonies had been packed in the Guard Hose lab together—they were usually far enough away from the main facility that it was acceptable to Wesker—but to start hiring more people to work in the main facility under the mansion, no even worse, their own  _lab_ , well that was crossing the line.

This sudden very unwanted turn of events had taken place in response to Umbrella, Lord Spencer in particular, wanting more expedient results from his most productive labs—the Raccoon Facility included. Wesker had not missed the irony that one of the reasons listed for the hiring of more lab workers—aside from Dr. Marcus's sudden transfer back to the Research and Training Facility upon its "reopening" a few years ago—was the death of Alexia Ashford and the following loss of all advancements coming for the Antarctica Branch.

It wasn't as if he and Birkin had had any real choice in the matter, but it still enraged him to no end to have complete strangers working in what had once been their private labs. It certainly didn't help things that Wesker was quite sure that this new, unfortunately, rather attractive, addition to their daily lives had a bit of a crush on  _his_  William Birkin.

Wesker had been contemplating ways to "accidentally" expose who he viewed as the intruder to the true nature of their work for quite some time now. In the end, he had decided to forgo the myriad of problems that came with an "accidental" viral leak by bringing it up with Birkin. William was by no means as paranoid as Dr. Marcus but the word did describe the man at times. How hard could it be to convince him that this Annette was a risk to the security and success of their research?

"Why?" blinked Birkin, returning Wesker's attention to the conversation. "She's been nothing but helpful in the past two months since we hired her. It's nice to finally have someone besides us who knows what they're doing in the lab."

Perhaps harder than he'd anticipated...

"Besides," he leaned back over the railing, "ever since Doctor Marcus retreated to the old facility to work exclusively with his leeches, things have gotten a bit hectic."

"Oh and," Birkin regarded Wesker's dark lenses again, an eyebrow quirked, "since when is Annette just 'my assistant?' Last I checked it's  _our_  lab she's assisting in which therefore makes her  _our_  assistant."

Wesker gritted his teeth. "That may be so, Will, but I recall me saying I didn't want a personal helper to clean up after me and you were the one with the big mouth who said, 'sure, we'd love someone else to meddle in our research and further complicate things,'" he mocked in a poor imitation of Birkin's acceptance of the "offer." "So therefore, that makes her _your_ problem; your problem which is rather annoyingly impeding on my ability to work."

Birkin glared and stood to his full height. Unfortunately his five foot ten inches did little when compared to Wesker's six foot three. "I'm sorry, did I miss something, Al?" he shot back heatedly. "Since when did you become so hostile towards Annette? You just seemed mildly annoyed when she joined us in January."

Wesker rounded on him. He was losing his temper quickly but he still tried one final time to rein it in; the move wasn't very effective. "And since when did  _you_  begin becoming so nonchalant about who you shared our research with? What happened to thinking every new researcher was a spy sent by another facility, perhaps little Alexia's twin brother, to steal our experiments, which wouldn't even make sense, I'm sorry to admit, because they were never near the caliber of what sweet little Alexia was producing!"

It was a low blow, one Wesker probably shouldn't have resorted to, especially since he'd inadvertently insulted himself in that statement and he knew how sensitive Birkin still was about the results of that horrible rivalry and the repercussions they were still experiencing from it, current issues included. As such, Wesker was actually considering apologizing. That is, until Birkin started yelling at him.

"Oh I don't know, Al! How about after the silly bitch  _died_ three whole years ago! I haven't forgotten  _that_  again or what my obsession almost did to you; to us! But you just can't let it go can you?!" Birkin turned away trying to calm his breathing, but before Wesker could say anything, he'd rounded on him again.

Trying to focus on anything besides the guilt that still haunted him, he decided to address the second half of Wesker's attack on him. "And how the hell do you view causing one's own death better quality research than what we've come up with? We discovered the goddamned virus! And what about Lisa? I seriously doubt that anything  _she_  was working with could have held up to everything we've injected into that subject! And the Hunter's? Cerberus? We actually created viable bio-organic weapons! They're all over this damned facility! Look at the giant shark in front of you!" He threw a wild gesture in a slightly more agitated than usual Neptune.

"But that doesn't even fucking matter anymore! I moved on!" A lie. "And you...you know how I feel about what happened! Why...why would you...?" He made a noise somewhere between exasperated, despair, and furious, throwing his hands up in there air, panting as a result of his tirade as he glared daggers up at his partner.

Part of Wesker wanted to apologize for the off color remark. That wasn't fair of him and he knew it. Birkin had more than made up for what had happened two years ago. However, apologizing after that would be admitting he was wrong. Wesker was never wrong and his pride wouldn't allow him to say anything that might imply that he was.

"Are you done?" hissed Wesker.

Not wanting to touch on that dark time in their past again that refused to leave him be, Birkin returned to the original subject of the argument. "No! You still haven't answered my question. What is your problem with Annette!"

Wesker matched his glower before folding his arms and turning away from Birkin back to the shark tank. "Nothing," he shot curtly. "Just drop it."

This seemed to almost enrage Birkin more than the Alexia comment had. "What?! Like hell I'm dropping this! Not after you're so damn upset that you brought ' _it'_  up again!"

True to his word, Birkin didn't drop it. He pried, prodded, and persisted well past Wesker's ability to ignore him. This constant "private" fight made it extremely difficult to talk to the scientists at the Guard House, further complicating a task that already grated heavily on Wesker's patience. All in all, it proved to be too much for the twenty five year old. Finally, as they were walking back across the gardens towards the mansion, Wesker broke.

"Goddammit, Will!" Wesker practically screamed. "I hate that damnable woman because the foolish thing can't stop fawning over you and staring at your ass! Not to mention all the perfectly good reasons I listed earlier for getting rid of her!"

Birkin froze blinking and opening his mouth several times in shock before he was able to speak. "She's staring at my...what...?"

"Your  _ass_ , Will. You cannot tell me that you haven't noticed! She's had a thing for you since she walked through those steel doors!" raged the blond.

"W-well I can because I...Al, I didn't...she...oh..."

A few tense moments of silence passed between them before Birkin broke it in the strangest way Wesker could have imagined: He started laughing. Quietly at first, but soon peals of hysteric mirth erupted from his throat that caused the twenty three year to hold his sides, barely maintain his balance on the cobblestone path, and actual tears to stream from his eyes.

Wesker had of course never been laughed at in such a way in his life. It was shocking, unheard of, and he was certain he didn't like it.

"What is so damned funny, Will?!" he spat folding his arms as if he expected the force of his glare and the venom of his words to stop his partner's ridiculous behavior.

It didn't.

Wesker had to endure full to minutes of this beratement until William could finally talk through his sudden hysterics. By this time, Wesker was seriously contemplating hitting him.

"I-" more laughter. "I can not believe you, Al! To think that I would-" the chuckling endured, threatening to rob Birkin of his ability to communicate what was so funny to Wesker. "With her?! After you, for...for almost  _nine years_!" He was inconsolable again. "That's the most unintelligent thing I've  _ever_  heard you say!"

Wesker might have been touched if Birkin wasn't still laughing.

"And how is any of this funny?" he questioned scathingly, his brow was twitching in annoyance.

After he finally managed to get himself under control again, Birkin answered. "That you,  _you_  of all people would be  _jealous_."

"Jealous!" Wesker gasped. "I'm not-!"

"Oh, yes you are," giggled Birkin. "And over  _me_!" Birkin sounded as though such a thing was absurd, something that would bother Wesker later when he thought about it and probably had something to do with his earlier dragging up of the past.

"Al..." he was much more serious now; well, at least he wasn't laughing any more. "Al, you're perfect. I'm...I'm uncannily fortunate to have had you for so long; to  _still_  have you...after everything."

All Wesker could do was stare. In all the years they'd been together, Birkin had  _never_ said such things. This was the closest either of them had come to saying,  _I love you,_  and Wesker had no idea how to respond or why these decorations were causing his breath to hitch in his throat.

"You're perfect. I'd be an absolute moron to pick anybody over you." With that, after a quick check to make sure they were really alone out here, Birkin leaned up and kissed Wesker deeply, his fingers wrapping around Wesker's neck, trying to convey the earnestness of his words to him.

Wesker didn't know whether to shove him back or pull him closer due to all the conflicting emotions swirling around inside of him. In the end, the latter impulse won and Wesker hungrily gripped William's waist pulling him in and further strengthening the kiss.

Birkin was lucky, should Wesker have shoved him, he would have fallen into the deep pool they were just passing by.

The kiss continued uninterrupted for several long minutes, deepening as Wesker's tongue requested and was granted entrance into Birkin's welcoming mouth. Wesker ran the skilled muscle over the tender flesh on the roof of Birkin's mouth before engaging Birkin's in a poor excuse for a battle of dominance. The older blond let the familiarity of William's body against his own and the promise of the security given by his partner's words eat away at the anger that had been boiling over in his chest.

To this day, Wesker didn't understand how Birkin was able to ease him out of his typical rages so effectively. At times it was extremely disconcerting to know the younger man had that much power over him, but, more often than not, he found himself grateful to the man holding on to him as tightly as Wesker was to him.

Eventually they separated, as much to breath as for any other reason, their bodies still clinging together in order to maintain the heat that had been building between them during the rather unexpected kiss.

"So," began Wesker as he ran a hand through his own hair, fixing the slight mess Birkin had just made of the stiff strands, "are you going to fire her?"

This tactic of simply moving on with the conversation was easier than dwelling on the deeper more sensual emotions that Birkin had just brought to the surface. It was the method Wesker typically employed to deal with the finer emotional points of life, usually to the dismay of his much more open partner.

Birkin rolled his eyes, not unwrapping his hands from where they had come to rest on Wesker's strong shoulders. "Really, Al?" he chuckled, burring his face in his friend's shoulder momentarily. "We're back to Annette? After that I was expecting well...more."

Wesker raised an eyebrow, tilting Birkin's chin upwards. "I stopped yelling, I said I was sorry, and I just made out with you for at least three minutes."

Wesker certainly hadn't said he was sorry, not out loud anyway. Birkin by now knew that this, and other similar tactics, were the only way Wesker had of offering up remorse for his actions. It may not have seamed like much, but considering who it was coming from, it was a lot, and Birkin could accept it.

"Define this 'more?'" Wesker smirked rather devilishly as he pulled William closer by his one arm grip on the man's hip. "You didn't want me to throw you down right here in the garden did you?"

Birkin's already flushed face became slightly redder. Sex was not what he had had in mind. There was far more to any relationship; to  _their_  relationship than intercourse. Right? Sometimes, with the way Wesker usually ignored or blew off this side of things, Birkin wondered if that's all it was to him.

The younger blond shook his head. Far from true, all he had to do was think about every time Wesker had saved him or allowed the weaker man to lean heavily on him to know Wesker really cared. His partner just had a hard time showing it in the usual ways.

"No, Al. I just..." He swallowed. "I guess I expected you to have forgotten about it?"

Dropping it at this point would be easier then trying to get Wesker into a discussion of what his earlier declaration had almost brought to the surface.

Now it was Wesker's turn to laugh as he released the hold he had on his partner. "Dearheart, you're going to have to kiss me a lot harder than that if you expect me to lose my head." He then turned and continued towards the entrance to the main labs

Birkin smirked softly and sighed as he straitened his lab coat. "So it would seem." A few hurried steps later he had caught up to Wesker and wrapped an arm around his waist for as long as the temporary privacy allowed.

In all reality, they probably didn't need to be so secretive about their relationship. It wasn't as though Umbrella really cared one way or another what their scientists did in their spare time regarding personal lives. But as Wesker and Birkin were planing treason against the company, any possible weakness that Umbrella could exploit, should the worst happen, had to be completely hidden. Plus, Wesker said the secrecy added a sort of thrill to it all; a typical comment from the blond.

As they were walking down the path revealed by the strange fountain door, Wesker proved once again that his tenacity and determination to always win could not be defeated. "So, we're transferring her to the Guard House correct?"

Birkin sighed as he walked through the elevator door held by Wesker. "Not...at the moment."

"Oh?" was Wesker's response, bordering on deadly.

"Al...we're going to start the combat data collection on Doctor Marcus's B.O.W.s soon," reasoned Birkin. "He should be sending them up by the end of the week."

"And?"

At least Wesker was entertaining his argument, even if the older blond wasn't pleased about it.

" _And_  we're going to be completely occupied with the resulting experiments meaning we'll have no time to maintain the rest of the lab."

Wesker silence spoke volumes about his opinion of Birkin's yet unspoken suggestion.

"You want to leave Doctor Sparks in charge of the rest of the lab?"

Nope, not happy at all.

"She's a very capable individual, even you have to admit that."

The look on Wesker's face informed Birkin that he most certainly did not have to do any such thing.

"She can handle the T-Caries, Hunters, and Cerberus tests so we can focus whatever the old coot is sending. The faster we're done with him and the research he's suddenly deigned to share, the better," insisted Birkin.

Wesker still didn't look convinced.

"As soon as we finish collecting the data, we'll transfer her. Okay?" he relented.

Wesker looked away sighing and tapped his gloved finger on his arm for a few moments. "Fine," he eventually agreed curtly before pressing the button that would take then into the labs below.

"Thank you, Al," whispered William kissing him for as long as the quick elevator ride would allow.

Wesker muttered something inaudible that may have been, "you're welcome," but probably wasn't anything close to it.

Latest argument having reached its conclusion, they continued into their no longer private laboratory.

* * *

 _March 17th_   _, 1986; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

"So basically, Annette," concluded Birkin after a long winded speech that certainly should not have made the simple matter at hand so unnecessarily complicated, "Doctor Wesker and I need you to manage the rest of the lab until we finish the experiments with the new B.O.W.s, and then after that, we'll see if we can't give you your own laboratory over in the Guard House. I'm sure, if given the chance to do your own research on T, your results will far outshine those of the other scientist there. Such a talented woman should not be forced to work as a mere assistant," gushed Birkin with a smile.

After Wesker's unspoken but firm prodding—mostly sharp jabs with his elbow into William's now smarting side—The abused Birkin had been forced to talk to Annette about transferring to the Guard House. This was not however, the discussion the glowering blond had envisioned. In the option of the scientist with his back pointedly turned away from the pair towards the gigantic test tube containing there oldest experiment, Lisa Trevor, Birkin was doing a  _terrible_  job of getting rid of her.

Wesker glared at the woman's faint blush through the reflective surface before him. It wasn't any wonder that the rage he'd been feeling towards this intruder had returned full force almost instantly, or why he had been so angry in the first place. There was really no reason for Birkin to give her such praise. Suddenly he wished he'd convinced Birkin to let  _him_  fire her.

Annette, who had been patiently waiting through all of Birkin's pointless rambling, smiled softly at him. "Don't worry, William I promise that I'll take good care of the lab and your experiments, I'll have daily reports on your desk the every morning and I'll be sure to call you if there are any significant changes."

Another reason why Wesker loathed the woman; she had the gall to call Birkin by his first name. It angered him almost as greatly as how Birkin always referred to her as "Annette" rather than "Dr. Sparks."

"But really," she continued, pushing a strand of her dark blond, chin length hair behind her ear, "I doubt there is higher position in this facility than working under you...and Doctor Wesker, and assisting with your research." Her words were steady and seemingly innocent, but the meaning was clear.

Oh Wesker was really seething now. The blatant flirting was going to kill him, or more accurately, her if he didn't do something fast.

Instead of focusing on the flustered way Birkin was trying to respond now that he fully understood Annette's friendliness, knew Wesker was listening, and was trying to keep the promise to his partner regarding her transfer without being too confrontational, Wesker poured all his attention into the ever hideous Lisa.

In the past eight years, he and Birkin had ruthlessly exposed the abused girl to everything they'd created at levels that could be considered nothing short of sadistic. As a result, Lisa's already disgusting form had further disintegrated into something barely recognizable as even remotely human. Her thin flesh had further rotted and pealed away and her back had become so hunched and swollen that her long impossibly thin arms scrapped across the ground whenever she was allowed to walk; a rare occurrence.

Just as her body had rapidly decayed, so had her mind. What little of her humanity was left had seemed to simply vanish, leaving her as nothing more than a constantly mutating, ever growing shell that refused to die. It was not this twisting of her body and mind that concerned Wesker and Birkin though, it was her unprecedented ability to withstand it all. The experimental torture they had put her through would have destroyed anything else years ago, yet still, Lisa was alive. Her regenerative body had accepted, adapted, and healed no mater what atrocities they inflicted upon her battered beaten form.

There was nothing more to be gained from this creature, yet the fact that's she'd survived  _everything_  made her too much of an "asset" to destroy—not that Wesker really thought doing so was a possibility at this point. On top of that, Lisa was still extremely violent and exceedingly dangerous, hence her seemingly infinite confinement in the glass test tube. After what's she'd almost done to him eight years ago, that was fine with Wesker. He just wished they'd hidden her away in some corner. She wasn't exactly the most attractive of decorations.

Wesker allowed himself to be pulled from his thoughts by the light touch of Birkin's hand on his sleeve. Glancing back he saw Annette was busying herself with the row of test tube contained hunters.

"I didn't hear any real resolution," Wesker stated, his voice lowered but the disappointment was evident.

Birkin sighed. "I...I know but...she's coming around." He hoped that the offered compensation would be enough to sate Wesker.

"Oh?"

It wasn't. Wesker certainly wasn't pleased with the failed results of Birkin's attempts to "get rid" of Annette.

Birkin shot a quick look back at their assistant. Once he was sure she was quite busy and wasn't going to accidentally see what he was about to do, Birkin leaned up and pressed his lips to the side of Wesker's neck, just below his ear. "You have  _nothing_ to worry about, Al," whispered Birkin, the damp heat of his breath tickling Wesker's skin and causing him to imperceptibly shiver. "Believe me, I'll be just as pleased as you to have these labs... _private_ again."

Wesker had to laugh quietly at Birkin's implications of what they did down here. Such actions would be very liable to start another biohazard and neither of them would ever be so careless; that's what the break room was for.

"Fine," Wesker stated, barely able to keep the amusement from his voice; a bit pointless since he'd already laughed. "I'll relent...for now." He glanced at his watch. "But in the mean time, while you have such an  _adept_  assistant, I think I'll let the two of you finish off the day."

Birkin froze, believing he'd pissed off his rather temperamental boyfriend more than he'd realized. "Why? Are...are you leaving?" he ventured cautiously.

"Yes," affirmed Wesker. "I have some business I must attend to; communication with the Research and Training Facility, that kind of thing."

He was lying and they both knew it.

"Look, Al, I'll fire her right now if you want," Birkin attempted to placate hurriedly. "You don't have to leave I-"

Wesker laughed again. "As tempting as that is, Will, it isn't necessary. I really  _do_  have something I must see to."

Birkin didn't look convinced.

After a making sure there was still a row of test tubes between them and Annette, Wesker placed a chaste kiss to Birkin's lips. "It's fine, I'll see you tonight." He turned to go. "Just make sure she keeps her hands off you," a grinning Wesker called quietly over his shoulder.

Birkin's blush and stutters ushered the older blond out.

* * *

 _March 17th_   _, 1986; Raccoon City:_

God Wesker hated this; hated being outside Umbrella's facilities and out in the "real" world. During the past nine years, he'd found himself leaving the shelter of the labs less and less. There was really no reason to, Umbrella provided everything its workers needed: Food, housing, daily necessities, convenience items, and a fair few comfort measures. As such, seeing the blond outside on the streets of Raccoon as he was now was rare occurrence indeed.

He hated the crowds of clueless people, the way their shoulders would sometimes brush against him in their hurried bustle to nowhere important and the unintelligible noise that seemed to occupancy them everywhere they went. It grated on his last nerves and left him extremely out of his element. People out here lived by an entirely alien set of codes, rules, and customs that he'd long ago traded in for those strictly mandated by Umbrella. As a result, he no longer had any clue how to follow the traditional behavior that dictated public life. He didn't know how to live out here.

It bothered him of course; this hatred and unfamiliarity with anything not Umbrella, perhaps more so than his dislike of being out here. It meant he was that much further away from escape, that much more integrated and trapped within the pharmaceutical giant.

Wesker tired not to think of any of this as he walked stiffly away from the company issue car that had been instructed to pick him up in the same location about forty five minutes later—oh no, Wesker didn't know how to drive. When had he ever had the time to learn and practice something that he had so little use for? You couldn't even get to the Arklay Mansion by car. You did that in a helicopter—he could fly one of those.

Such a lack of what most considered a crucial life skill hadn't affected him in most the big cities where public transportation was much more prominent, but here in Raccoon it was a different story. Here, it was a ten minute flight followed by a two hour drive from the nearest private helicopter pad—a long abandoned ranger station under Umbrellas control—into town. Then there was only a single rather limited subway line running throughout the city.

That meant, his not knowing how to properly operate a vehicle, resulted in having to ask one of the non-lab workers at the forest station to give him a ride into town and once there, he had to navigate the streets on foot. While this was extremely annoying, he usually only did it once a year, and therefore, wasn't motivated enough to actually take the time to learn how to drive.

Wesker sidled as far to the left as the paved sidewalk would allow in order to avoid a group of teenage girls, probably hailing from the near by Raccoon City High School judging by the identical uniforms whose plaid skirts were hiked up well beyond school policy. The five of the overly loud females were all blatantly staring and giggling in his direction.

Another reason he hated going into town: Women refused to leave him be.

Before one of the bolder ones, urged on by her fellow classmates, got up the nerve to ask him for his company issued cell number, Wesker picked up his pace and disappeared around a corner.

It wasn't that much farther to his destination, but Wesker was still cursing his decision to have the driver—a man he didn't even know by name—drop him off in a random location in Down Town Raccoon, instead of his actual goal; a choice made out of the desire to preserve privacy. It wasn't as if the place he was going to required discretion, but Wesker disliked the fact that every second of every day,  _someone_ from Umbrella always knew his whereabouts. Hence his privacy in regards to something as simple as picking up Birkin's birthday present.

Wesker smirked. It was only six days away, but he very much doubted Birkin had remembered. The man's mind was too busy mulling over and dreading the upcoming tests on Dr. Marcus's creatures and Wesker's recently brought up problems with Annette, which suited Wesker just fine. While Wesker hated surprises he often enjoyed pulling the rug out from beneath others, especially Birkin.

Wesker sighed in relief as he saw the building he'd been aptly searching for come into view. The fine jewelry store wasn't what most would have guessed to be the location of Birkin's twenty fourth birthday present. On the contrary, everything Wesker had  _ever_ gotten William was completely practical and this year would be no different, well, aside from the outrageously large price tag attached and the  _several_  trips to this dreadful city he'd had to make in order to get the gift in order.

Steeling himself for further interactions with the "friendly" staff he secretly hated, Wesker walked through the glass door. His presence was announced by the happy tinkling of the brass bell above the frame, causing him, as it always did, to wince. He hated how suddenly all pairs of eyes in the shop were suddenly on him, including those of the customers who had naught to do with him or his reason for being here.

Despite his feelings of unease, Wesker smoothly made his way over to the glass case containing a variety of extravagant items people adorned themselves with.

As expected in a shop this upscale and fancy, someone immediately came over to help him. Unfortunately, the beaming petite brunette was not the person he'd spoken too before. This meant more time wasted and possible hassle. No inconvenience Wesker had been imagining prepared him for what happened next.  
"So..." she singsonged, " Who's the very,  _very_ luck lady?" The woman, Sally, according to her name tag, punctuated the question with a beaming smile and a wink.

Wesker stared, unable to form a proper response to the absurd question. Why in the hell would she ask him tha- He looked down. Oh...he was standing in front on the engagement ring case...

Before he could inform her of her grave misunderstanding, she pressed onwards on the outrageous assumption that his lack of ability to speak was due to him being shy. "It's okay, Sir," She actually had the  _nerve_ to place a hand on his shoulder. "I've helped a lot of guys in this...very special area before. Don't worry, we'll find the perfect ring; the one she can't resist saying yes to!"

Where as before, Wesker was feeling only slightly angered and mostly shocked, he was now livid; a mood that came with several vivid images of all the possible experiments he could put her through back in his lab. The pretentious slip of a thing should be fired.

Reigning in his temper, Wesker responded to her a coolly as possible; which for him meant quite a bit of his annoyance shown through. "I'm here to pick up a  _watch_."

He observed the results of his statement in satisfaction: Her previously beaming face froze and them morphed into one of utter embarrassment, a heavy blush covering her previously only slightly pink cheeks.

"Oh my, God, I am  _so_ sorry!" she exclaimed hand flying to her mouth. "It's just, when an attractive guy comes over to this area he's usually..." She shook her head rapidly. "I'm really sorry, please forgive my  _very_  incorrect assumption."

Wesker couldn't hide his grin as she continued to become more and more flustered. She was new, it was obvious. He doubted calling costumers "attractive" was part of the approved sales strategy. Then again, women out here usually acted inappropriately around him. He  _almost_  wished Birkin was here with him. A little revenge jealousy—not that that was what Wesker felt towards Annette—would do the younger blond some good.

"An understandable mistake," Wesker falsely forgave her. "But I assure you I'm not getting married anytime soon."

She smiled sweetly at him, thankful he'd let it go. But damn was he  _cute_! Tall, athletic build, blond, and dressed  _so_  nicely...he was even wearing sunglasses  _inside_  like some sort of movie star. "Sure I can't change your mind?" she joked.

Wesker was far from amused, but he managed a very fake smile in response which she seemed to buy. "I'm afraid not."

"Can't blame a girl for trying!" she giggled.

Oh the hell he couldn't.

She cleared her throat. "Where is my head today?" she laughed a little nervously.

 _Out the window with your class..._  thought Wesker scathingly.

"Anyway, you said you were here to pick up a watch?" she asked,  _finally_  back to the matter at hand. She had already wasted  _far_  too much of his valuable time flirting shamelessly with him.

"Yes," he responded as politely as possible. "I was called today and told it was ready."

"Okay, sure!" she beamed. "Right this way."

Wesker followed her over to the main checkout area where she began flipping through a key ring, searching for the correct one to open the locked cupboard beneath the cash registers where they kept the completed custom and hold orders.

"What was the name?" she asked casually as she bent over to unlock it. Wesker was not imagining the purposeful way she was attempting to draw attention to her well defined _ass_ ets.

"Muller...Alex Muller." He mentally winced. Yeah...that had been  _real_  creative on his part, but they were the first names that came to mind at the time he'd placed the order. There would have really been no problem giving this tiny insignificant shop his real name, but it was hard to overcome the paranoia beat into the scientists working for a company that killed them if they let the wrong thing slip or became a liability. Wesker was actually surprised his former mentor was still around, what with the huge inconvenience he'd become for Umbrella and Lord Spencer.

She glanced up, her hazel eyes meeting his shaded ones for a moment. "Alex..." she said slowly, "I like that."

Good, because he  _hated_  it.

"Ah ha!" she called a few minutes later from a view that only properly allowed him to see her nicely formed ass. "Got it!" She rose from her compromising position and placed a long rectangular box on the counter. "Sorry it took so long, I was looking for a wrist watch instead of a pocket watch."

The first thing today he couldn't fault her for.

"Let's take a look shall we?" With that she opened the box, displaying the grand device that would serve as Birkin's present this year.

The watch was sterling silver inlaid with a gold filigree creating the delicate ring of scales forming a snake with the tip of its tail wrapped around its own fangs. The serpent surrounded delicate cursive lettering spelling out the phrase  _'Power is Life_.' Pairing Uroboros with the final line of the Research and Training Facility's motto on the gift was Wesker's way of reminding Birkin of the past, and the dangers of losing control of one's own power; in Birkin's case, his research. It was also a rather uncharacteristicly nostalgic reminder of the conversation they'd had during their first Christmas together; the first Christmas Wesker didn't look back on and shudder.

The back of the watch was transparent, allowing the owner to see the many intricate wheels and cogs that brought the device to life; Birkin always enjoyed seeing exactly how things functioned. The watch itself was set on an ivory face around which ebony hands traveled and pointed out the time by means of delicate roman numeral characters. Opposite the face was another engraving, these characters forming,  _'William E. Birkin'_  in more graceful calligraphy. It was quite the task to uncover Birkin's middle name and seemingly pointless as only the E in Eric made it onto the gift. Finally, the device was suspended by a beautiful yet sturdy sliver chain, one that Wesker was currently holding the exemplary watch up by in order to examine it properly.

"She's a beauty..." whispered the sale's clerk. "You certainly have fine tastes."

She was right on both accounts, but Wesker really just wished she'd shut up.

"It's adequate," he finally relented, setting the fine piece of craftsmanship that had took him months to have made back into its silk wrappings.

Sally just continued her ever present, highly grating smile. "So will that be all for you today, Alex?"

Wesker mentally shuddered at hearing that cursed name again. It could have been any name under the sun and he had to pick  _that_ one. "Yes, that's it," he responded curtly, in a hurry to be done with this place. Before she'd even finished ringing up the gift, Wesker had already started counting out the ridiculous amount of cash required to buy it—paranoia again keeping him again from taking a more convenient rout.

By the time she'd gotten around telling him the actual damaged he'd already placed fifteen hundred dollars bills on the counter before her. That may have seemed an absurd amount but what else was he going to do with the impressive sum Umbrella paid him every month? The company pretty much paid for everything he could want for, why not go "all out" on the one gift a he bought a year? Wesker never had and never would celebrate Christmas.

She just stared at him; apparently carrying around that much cash in his pockets made him even more appealing...fantastic.

Wesker exchanged as few words as possible as the transaction was completed and kindly declined her offer for a "special discount." Nothing in life was  _ever_  free, and he'd be damned if he was going to owe her regardless of whether or not it was possible for her to collect on it.

Finally out of the oppressiveness of the fine jewelry store, Wesker quickly made his way back up the well kept sidewalk at a brisk pace towards where he'd been dropped off—Wesker checked his, by comparison to the one he was carrying, much less grand watch—only twenty five minutes prior? Huh, he'd thought all the infuriating interactions with that silly sale's woman would have held him up more; he had plenty of time. Slowing down, Wesker walked the remaining distance to his the pick up location at the corner of Ennerdale and Central at as leisurely pace as his current discomfort at being out here allowed.

Once there, he found a pleasant spot on a wooden bench under a large shade tree and sat down, waiting the remaining ten minutes for his ride. As he sat, his eyes were drawn to his surroundings. Most of Raccoon was quite aesthetically pleasing. This was due almost entirely to the Umbrella Corporation which made its home in and pretty much controlled everything in the unknowing city. Ignorance was bliss he supposed, leaning further back in the bench.

After a few minutes of idle boredom, Wesker's eyes were drawn to the rather grandiose building across the street from him: The city's art museum. The huge building took up almost an entire city block with its visually attractive architecture reflective of the treasures held within. Wesker had never been a very big fan of art, but on several occasions he'd found himself tempted to enter the grand structure.

He sighed, as with all his other excursions when such thoughts had taken him, he didn't have the time. He severely doubted that he'd ever be presented with an opportunity to set foot in the building, a fact that didn't really bother him but would serve as a great source of private amusement to the blond in the year 1996.

Having nothing better to do and in an effort to fight off the nagging impatience clawing at the back of his mind, Wesker removed sleek leather box containing Birkin's gift from the inner pocket of his black trench coat. After turning it over idly in his hands for a few moments, Wesker reopened it.

His expression went from frozen, to shock, to anger in the span of about two seconds. Folded neatly atop the silk wrapping covering the sliver pocket watch was a note hand scrawled in a bright pink ink re-informing him of the name belonging to the nuisance he'd thought he'd left behind in the shop and her telephone number next to the words,  _"Call me."_

Wesker angrily ripped up the note and tossed the shredded pieces to the wind.

It took him a moment before he started laughing. Oh the look on Birkin's face if Wesker hadn't checked and just given it to him on the twenty third...now that, that would be jealousy.

* * *

 _March 17th_   _, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

A strange sort of relief flooded Wesker once he finally set foot back inside the familiar mansion. After all the trouble he'd had in town, not to mention his earlier fight with Birkin regarding Annette Sparks, Wesker wanted nothing more than to retreat to the relative safety of his quarters. Unfortunately, Wesker had one final stop to make before he was able to get in the well deserved shower awaiting him. Taking the flight of main stares up to the second floor, Wesker begrudgingly stalked through the East Wing towards the large office serving as the facility's mail room.

He was going out of necessity, in case more information had come in on the soon to be arriving B.O.W.s. It most likely had, Dr. Marcus had been writing them for weeks regarding these tests, making it seem to be a much bigger task than it truly was. Truthfully, Marcus could  _easily_ be preforming these tests in his  _own_  lab despite his claims that they had more adept equipment for such things. The reality of it was probably that the obsessive, reclusively paranoid, old man couldn't pull himself away from his damned leeches long enough to give Umbrella the data they wanted on his only useful test subjects. His disgusting choice in personal pets hadn't yielded real results since the discovery of Tyrant.

It was beyond Wesker why Birkin had accepted the busy work Dr. Marcus had practically ordered them to preform. They weren't even remotely under his control any more. As far as Wesker was concerned he could handle his own bloody research or be "let go" like all the other no longer useful scientists in this cutthroat company, founding status be damned.

Upon opening his locked section of the giant filing cabinet serving as a mail box to the workers in the Spencer Estate Labs, Wesker found nothing. It was pleasing that not everything thing today was going to serve as an annoyance; he'd had far to many of those in the past twelve hours already.

Out of habit and his lack of belief that his partner should have any form of privacy from him, Wesker produced a second small key, nearly identical to the one he's just used, and checked Birkin's drawer. His efforts rewarded him with a good sized stiff envelope bearing a Connecticut return address. Wesker didn't even have to read the senders' names to know that this had come from Birkin's parents.

Like clockwork, twice a year about a week before his birthday and then again several days before Christmas, the parents who had nothing else to do with William sent him a card with a scrawled note adorning its inside surfaces asking him in one way or another when he was going to make Umbrella's Board of Directors.

Wesker still remembered the day shortly after their near death experience with Plant 15 when Birkin had finally opened up about his past and the reasons for him ending up under Umbrella's watchful eyes. It was that day that Wesker had also come to understand the truth about William's parents which was the reason he was now glaring at the simple envelop with such disdain.

* * *

 _July 31st_ _, 1981; Spencer Estate_   _Underground Labs Level B2_

"My parents always viewed me as more of an investment than as their child," Birkin blurted suddenly as the two of them were sorting through Dr. Sarton's copious amounts of research notes on Plant 15; an experiment that Wesker had personally terminated the prior afternoon. "It was just one advanced placement program after another; constant coaching and pushing; the best was never enough, it always had to be better."

There was nothing Wesker had done to prompt the sudden rather off the wall admission form Birkin. It was so unexpected, all Wesker could do was stare at the man across from him over the stack of papers he'd been sorting through as he tried to process the strange comment. In the end, he had no idea what a proper response would be so opted for staying silent.

Birkin looked away from what he knew to be an intense stare hidden behind Wesker's dark lenses, suddenly feeling very flustered. "You asked why I was here..." he clarified quietly.

Wesker nodded, recalling the inquiry he'd made last Thursday prior to being nearly suffocated to death.

When Wesker didn't say anything in response and just kept looking at him expectantly, Birkin continued, his eyes refocusing on the desk between them instead of Wesker's passive features.

"First it was private tutors from the best schools around the world, than it was a whirlwind of private academies with other kids twice my age, none of which were apparently good enough for me. I finished high school at age eleven with the highest grades in the region." He sighed. "After that I flew through collage and graduate school. When Umbrella sent me the personal request to join their Research Division, how could I refuse?"

He shook his head. "The 'plan,' as we used to call it, was for me to make the company's board of directors within five years." He laughed with only a small amount of humor showing through, his eyes moving up to meet Wesker's. "Guess I kinda got off track."

Wesker was unable to form, the proper words; wasn't sure what to tell him. When he'd pictured Birkin's past...well Wesker guessed it made sense. It certainly explained his outrage at Umbrella's recent hiring of Alexia Ashford. It was just strange hearing it, imagining the childhood, or lack there of Birkin had just described to him. Perhaps they had even more in common than Wesker had believed.

The continued lack of a response from his partner was starting to really affect the younger blond who started nervously fidgeting with the papers he was holding, his eyes once again darting away from Wesker's. "I guess it's not uncommon for parents to attempt to live through their children...They were never around except to attend the graduations." A small sad smile. "They never missed a single one. Other than that, they just went through the motions." Birkin's thin fingers continued to pick at the corner of the folder in his hands. "It doesn't bother me," he declared quickly. "Not anymore anyways. I'm just glad to be away from all that." He smiled. "Even if this place is far from what most people would consider an improvement."

Turned out neither of them had wonderful pasts...

* * *

 _March 17th_   _, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Wesker shook his head, clearing the memories that were flying around it. Then, without hesitation, Wesker ripped the meaningless thing in two, tossed it in the trash can, and then exited the room. Birkin certainly didn't need to see it.

Thinking back now, he should have burned it. This facility was full of prying eyes that had no business reading that ripped card.

* * *

_March 20th_ _, 1986; Spencer Estate, Guard House B.O.W. Testing Rooms:_

The B.O.W.s had shown up at two A.M. In the morning, arriving by chopper in the same large metal shipping crates their still uninfected, human test subjects usually were delivered in. At first Wesker had fought tooth and nail to keep Birkin from rushing down to the labs to immediately start work on their latest project. Then he'd heard the constant shrieking howls of the caged Eliminators and had reconsidered any futile attempts he was planning at going back to sleep.

Now, eight hours and at least five cups of coffee later ,Wesker was as livid as he'd been in weeks, his shielded eyes narrowed to slits as he glared daggers at the giant screens before him. This was possibly  _the_ worst day of his life—excluding Christmas Eve of course.

They were testing three different models: The Eliminator, Lurker, and Plague Crawler. Five samples of each prototype had been provided for the testing.

The Eliminator was a primate based model, the particular breed being a varvet monkey. Exposure to the virus caused massive growth of the creatures muscular tissue resulting in severe tearing of the animals skin so that the raw exposed muscles protruded up through their matted grayish white fur. Other than that, the only noticeable physical difference, aside from their rather rabid look, was a significant increase in size. Whereas typical members of their species never breached twenty pounds, the Eliminators could get up to sixty.

Doctor Marcus had chosen primates as one of his prototype weapons in hopes that the base form's intelligence would carry over after infection, leaving the resulting B.O.W. much smarter than the average T exposed specimens. From the intelligence tests Wesker and Birkin had already preformed on the creatures—having them solve various puzzles to get at their pray—there wasn't a significant enough improvement to consider the attempt a success. They were just big, dumb, highly aggressive, powerful monkeys that sill liked to throw unmentionable, highly infections material at the thick glass Birkin and Wesker were observing them through. They just had a higher propensity and ability to kill anything that moved around them than their uninfected counter parts.

Then there were Lurkers. Large infected toads was the best way Wesker could think of to describe them; four and a half foot long toads to be exact. Significantly less intelligent than the hunters he and Birkin had developed, Wesker could already tell that they were a dead end. Their only advantages were their aquatic nature and nigh impenetrable thick bumpy skin, coupled with a keen sense of hearing and an almost sixth sense of their prey's of body movement. This was offset by the fact they were basically blind, very skittishly leaped back towards the nearest water source at the slightest provocation, and attacked anything that moved—whether it was living or not—without prejudice. One of them had spent a whole of twenty minutes repeatedly shooting its lance tipped tongue—capable of completely impaling a human—at the shielded camera recording its movement.

The final B.O.W. on the agenda was the Plague Crawler, making the third of the rather grandly named, unprofitable creatures Dr. Marcus was wasting their time with. The Plague Crawlers were infected insects—Wesker was unsure of the base species used—that had grown to unbelievable sizes. Measuring up to two meters in length from their many eyed, cockroach-like head to the base of their swollen abdomen which they were forced to drag along behind them, these creatures mimicked the unprecedented growth of the infected spiders already being manufactured down here.

This strange size increase was, in Wesker's opinion, perhaps their biggest flaw. Imagine the damage a swarm of miniscule infected insects could cause if a single bite could spread the virus? They would be nigh impossible to contain and equally hard to locate and kill. They'd spread Tyrant like a wildfire. It would be a far greater threat than giant bugs that looked like they scuttled out from a bad science fiction movie.

The advantages to these particular specimens were their thick brown exoskeletons that provided thus unparalleled protection and their deadly slicing pincers. Wesker thought it was also a nice perk that they somehow managed to retain their abilities to climb up and stick to walls despite their increased weight. The drawbacks were, as expected, an extremely low intelligence and ability to be controlled. Wesker had never seen a particularly intelligent or trainable insect before, so this came as no surprise.

All in all, this was a complete waste of their time.

Birkin glanced nervously from the images before him over to his companion and then down to the steaming cup of black liquid in his hands. Wesker  _never_  drank coffee. The caffeine and the smell gave him terrible migraines. The only time the older blond drank what he usually referred to as "that swill," was when he had no other means with which to stay awake. Birkin winced the two A.M. wake up most certainly made today qualify.

Birkin wisely reached forward and turned down the volume so that the inhuman screaming of the monsters being recorded wouldn't grate so much on Wesker's ears.

"Al," he ventured quietly. "Are you alright?"

The hiss of air escaping though Wesker's gritted teeth was answer enough. Not that it was very hard to guess why he was in such a foul mood. Aside from the middle of the night wake up, his nigh splitting headache, and the fact that they were doing Dr. Marcus's dirty work for him, the combat testing had to be done down in the Guard House—the only place with the necessary high security rooms and the equipment to carry out the tests. It was also Wesker's least favorite place to be, filled with his least favorite people within the Raccoon City branch.

And that wasn't even getting into the details of how these tests were being preformed.

At first, it had been standard procedure: Put the creatures in a room filled with rather inane puzzles they had to get through to secure their pray, then test their attack power and ability to resist and recover from damage, and finally, put them up against a very unlucky group of heavily armed U.B.C.S. Trainees. Unfortunately,  _someone—_ by the name of William Eric Birkin—had forgotten to turn off the live video feeds to the other observations room where the remaining group of recruits had been waiting.

Wesker couldn't really blame them for refusing to face the creatures they just seen rip through their comrades, but it was an extremely annoying set back.

Technically, they had had enough data. Not as much as Dr. Marcus would have wanted but it had been adequate. It also wouldn't have been very difficult to dispose of the remaining B.O.W.s—three Eliminators, one Lurker, and two Plague Crawlers. It would have been the highlight of Wesker's rather nasty day.

That is not how things had turned out.

One of the idiots—Wesker didn't catch which one, making the scientist a very lucking still breathing man—had suggested that they start pitting Dr. Marcus's B.O.W.s against their own. The idea had instantly become hugely popular and before Wesker had been able to properly apply the breaks to this train wreak, a veritable war of the B.O.W.s had ensued.

It wasn't too hard to get different B.O.W. types to attack each other—another setback in their useability. Some, like Cerberus and the Eliminators, were very territorial, others had no preference for what they attacked—mostly Dr. Marcus's remaining Lurker, Dr. Sarton's latest killer plant, and the giant spiders dubbed Web Spinners which believed  _everything_  was possible pray. The rest could be coxed into fighting by limiting food resources and spraying fresh blood around the room sending them into a sort of feeding frenzy.

Out of everything that had gone wrong today, this mass infected brawl was the real reason for Wesker's current attitude problem.

"What," Wesker spat the word with as much malice as he could muster, "do you think Birkin?"

Birkin winced back further, thankful Wesker was still choosing to glare at the screens instead of at him.

"It's not...so bad, Al," tried Birkin carefully. "We are getting some rather interesting data out of it."

"Since when," hissed Wesker. "have you ever described useless data as, 'interesting?'"

Birkin wisely did not respond, allowing Wesker to clarify what he technically already knew without inanely prodding him.

"We can't use any of this," seethed Wesker. "None of the variables are controlled, we aren't accounting for any interfering outside factors ,of which there are an untold quantity, and no one, not even you, has stopped to consider the danger such unorthodox pseudoscience is putting this facility and everyone in it at!" The young man's voice had risen to a shout by the end of his anger filled, but highly justified rant.

Birkin let out a long sigh. "You're right, as always, Al." That last part was added to hopefully ebb his partner's anger a bit. "I had hoped that we could get something good out of this chore."

"Does a bigger headache qualify? Because the all the inhuman screaming has certainly accomplished that much." It was a little less venomous than before but it was clear Wesker wanted this done and over with as soon as possible, preferably  _now_.

"I promise," Birkin swore, "I won't let them put any more creatures in th-"

At this precise moment, one of the Guard House researchers decided to burst into the room, his face shining with excitement. "Doctor Birkin, Doctor Wesker, wouldn't this be a wonderful opportunity to further test 'It's' abilities; you know, we should add Lisa to this experiment!"

Well that was the last fucking straw.

Wesker let out a low growl that was more menacing than any of the noises the B.O.W.s had been making all morning. He then got out of his seat and stormed out of the room, rudely shoving the moronic scientist aside so hard that he stumbled and fell against the door frame.

Wesker wasn't even there long enough to hear Birkin's definite, "no," to the confused researcher nor did he wait long enough to respond to Birkin's nervous inquiry as to his current intentions. Most people, including the watching scientists, believed suicide as Wesker drew his gun—a Desert Eagle Mark 1 .44 magnum—scanned his card, and punched in the necessary key, letting himself into what remained of the blood bath.

By now, all that was left was one seriously damaged Eliminator, its right arm hanging by a few of the strengthened muscles fibers and dragging uselessly behind it—two rather worse for wear Cerberuses, one zombie that was only still crawling around because nothing had crushed its head yet—the same couldn't be said for the rest of it—a single wary Hunter slinking around somewhere in the back of the room behind some rather large, unwisely opened cages, and Dr, Sarton's newest Project: Plant 27.

The zombie and the Eliminator were hardly much of a threat at this point and the two dogs would only require single bullets to the head to stop their attacks—this would be his first priority due to their speed. His biggest concern was the thankfully spore-less Plant 27—which he just intended to stay well out of reach from and then dispose of later by flooding the room with a rather nasty herbicide—and the Hunter. Not only had this reptilian breed shown more raw strength then any B.O.W. they'd manufactured thus far, its intelligence scores were not something that could be ignored. Hunter was really an apt name for the predator, describing its rather cunning nature to a T.

Wesker had no intention of becoming this creature's prey.

Birkin went from annoyed to total shock, and finally to absolute panic in all of about two seconds following his partner's actions. Wesker was  _in_ the room  _with_ the B.O.W.s, and in his frantic mind, about to get himself killed. Birkin didn't even stay in the observation room long enough to see Wesker put down the two rabid, charging dogs as they leaped for him. The four thunderous shots from the magnum that could be heard with or without the aid of the camera speakers only succeeded in driving him faster towards the room full of the, until now, useless U.B.C.S. trainees.

Birkin's hysterical and very real promises that he would personally experiment on each of them in the most horrific of ways if they didn't get in there and kill the remaining B.O.W.s ,was enough to get the three remaining agents on their feet and into the room, automatic rifles poised to destroy whatever Wesker already hadn't already blown away with his magnum.

Honestly, Wesker could have done without the back up. The dogs had gone down easily enough, their injured nature making it rather easy to blow ragged holes in their now demolished barrel shaped chests. The second one had actually managed to get airborne before the large caliber rounds had slammed it backwards, its limp body dropping to the floor about a meter from where its jump had begun.

The doors to one of the three waiting areas had slammed open just as Wesker turned to eliminate the ironically named screaming monkey. He was a little surprised at the assistance, but didn't have the time to contemplate what Birkin had said to them to get them in here. Wesker had to admit it made things easier. The fire from their M16s easily got rid of both the screaming Eliminator and the legless zombie crawling mindlessly over the floor towards the living flesh of its attackers. Then they started emptying their clips into the poison thorn tipped vines of Plant 27 and their usefulness came to an end.

The plant was stationary, hardly an issue if you weren't stupid enough to get close—something one of the trainees learned the hard way. The Hunter on the other hand, was a big problem, and one Wesker currently couldn't locate.

It wasn't until he heard her telltale death shriek that he saw the creature launch itself into the air, razor claws extended to behead him that Wesker found it again.

He didn't have time to shoot, he just dodged as quickly as he could to the left, rolling onto the blood splattered floor and away from the deadly talons. The agent who'd been standing next to him hadn't been so lucky.

Arterial spray shot all the way up to the ceiling, speckling it and the attacking reptile with crimson as the agent's roughly severed head rolled to the floor and his body collapsed directly in front of Wesker.

Well, that was certainly...different. Wesker had seen these creatures do worse,  _a lot worse_ , to those unlucky enough to serve the role of their prey, but he'd never been close enough to be sprayed with the victim's blood. Nor had he ever felt heat poring off the creature's infected body or the vibrations as the monster's bloody claws slammed into the ground a few feet from him, leaving deep rivets in the cement ground. In a way, he supposed the entire experience was fascinating and much more real than anything he'd been through before, standing behind several inches of safety glass. He'd never been in a position of danger like this before—aside from Lisa and Plant 15, but this was different somehow. He'd put himself in here with this monster and his goal was not simply survival. It was victory. He wasn't prey this time, he was just as much a hunter as the similarly named B.O.W. before him.

All this flashed though his mind in the milliseconds before he raised his magnum, aimed it right at the reptile's chilling face, and fired the remaining four shots.

The results were explosive. The first two completely obliterated the thing's close set head, leaving only an indistinguishable pile of, bone, green scales, and a red mush that was all that was left of its brain. The remaining two blew rather unnecessarily into its lifeless body as it fell, leaving two gaping holes in its disfigured chest.

The basically headless body crashed to the floor next to him and twitched violently for a few seconds before laying still, a pool of steaming blood beginning to leak from its various injuries.

Wesker quickly got to his feet, not wanting to be exposed to more sources of infection than he already had been—not that it would be an issue. No B.O.W.s remaining that he could satisfactorily kill without access to a flamethrower, Wesker moved out of the room, the remaining U.B.C.S. trainee wisely following behind him. Briefly Wesker considered whether or not they should let the young man leave—he really didn't want word getting out to the other facilities that this was how they did things around here.

Such thoughts were driven from his mind by the slap Birkin laid across his face and he was reminded again of how much of a bad mood he was in.

"What the hell was that, Al?! Are you trying to get yourself killed?! Or perhaps you just want to give me a heart attack! Do you know how fucking dangerous that was?!" Birkin was obviously livid. Wesker hadn't seen him this pissed since his competitions with Alexia Ashford. His face was beat red, and his expression an odd mix of panic, rage, and relief. It would have actually been amusing if Birkin hadn't just slapped him.

Wesker glared and holstered his now empty gun, momentarily wishing he had an extra clip he could use on all the gawking scientists around them. "I took care of the problem, Birkin," Wesker responded, his voice a deadly hiss but perfectly audible to all the other researchers around them. That was good since this next part was directed at them. "Let me make something perfectly clear, if anyone else here gets the foolish idea to place another B.O.W. in that room, I'm going to send them in there to clean up the mess. You can use the discarded guns used by the wasted agents."

"Doctor Sarton," the man actually jumped as Wesker rounded on him. "That plant will be disposed of by the hour or I'm coming in with another flamethrower. Is that understood?"

"Y-yes, sir," he muttered quietly. He distinctly remembered what Wesker had done to Plant 15 all those years ago and he was hoping to still get some useful data off of this one.

"As to the rest of you. This room," Wesker gestured violently to the room he and the only surviving U.B.C.S. agent had just vacated, "It will be clean and ready for  _approved_ experiments by tomorrow morning."

The chorus of affirmatives ushered him out of the room, a furious Birkin who was far from finished with him still in toe.

* * *

 _March 20th_   _, 1986; Spencer Estate, Guard House Decontamination Chamber:_

Several minutes later found Wesker under the pounding water in one of the facility's many decontamination chambers. Strangely, infection wasn't something that particularly worried Wesker anymore. As long as it was the typical strain of the Tyrant-Virus, Wesker wasn't really at any risk. It was his antibodies that had helped develop their current anti-virus after all. His current actions were primarily for Birkin's safety—who was glowering down at the ground just outside the room's door—as well as for show. The last thing he wanted was for Umbrella to realize he was immune to the virus. He had no idea what kind of experiments they'd put him through should they become aware.

As the water washed over his body, Wesker's mind was running over and over what had just occurred. He always knew that eventually he'd come up against B.O.W.s but he'd never expected it to be like that. In some ways it was much less dramatic than he'd imagined. It had all happened so fast. Just like with Lisa and Plant 15. There had been no time to really think about it. There was only enough time to react. What was more, he'd come this close to dying today. He couldn't really think about it like that because the concept of his life ending seemed so foreign to him.

Regardless, the fact was, today had been sloppy. If a single hunter had come that close, what would a pack have done? What if the other U.B.C.S. recruits hadn't shown up and killed that Eliminator and the zombie? He's only had eight shots, no extra clips on him, and he'd used all his rounds on the Cerberuses and the Hunter.

It all came down to the fact that, as of right now, he wasn't good enough; not even close.

Wesker finished up as quickly as possible, especially since it seemed as though the Guard House didn't get hot water, and exited to room.

Birkin didn't even look at him as he got out, he just held out the towel and those damnable white scrubs he hated so much. It wasn't really as though he had much of a choice. His clothes, including his favorite pair of black jeans as well as his sunglasses, were in the incinerator.

At first, Wesker thought Birkin's silence would continue, something he was fine with. But no such luck, Birkin was far from finished with him.

"Why the hell did you do that," William muttered angrily at the ground.

"I already told you," Wesker hissed back as he finished drying himself off.

Birkin's temper flared and he rounded on his partner. "There were a million other ways to go about 'cleaning up,' Albert!  _You_ didn't have to go in there! Do you have a death wish or something?!"

Wesker sighed heatedly, momentarily ignoring Birkin's rant in favor of pulling up the loose fitting pants. "I don't see what you're so angry about. It's not like I can get infected."

Birkin actually stomped his foot in rage—sometimes he really was childish. "Damn the virus! Infection or not those B.O.W.s could have ripped you to shreds! You could have  _died_! Don't you see that?!" His voice was almost pleading. "And all because you were fucking pissed off!"

Wesker was silent for a moment. "I suppose I didn't see it that way," he responded curtly.

Birkin just blinked at him. "You...you didn't." Birkin ran a hand through his already messier than usual hair, laughing without a fraction of humor. "You didn't see it that way." He was pacing now. "Okay, Al, I'll bite. How  _did_  you see it? Because from where I was standing, that Hunter nearly ripped your goddamn head off!"

He had a point...perhaps Wesker hadn't been as logical about his decision to kill the remaining B.O.W.s as he'd thought. Even so, he'd never admit it to Birkin.

"It didn't," he countered at length.

Apparently it was possible for Birkin to get angrier.

"I fucking know that, Al!" William was actually screaming at him. "But it  _could_  have! It  _almost_  did! What am I supposed to do if you  _die_?!"

Wesker just stared at him. He was starting to realize why Birkin was so livid. He actually almost felt bad,  _almost_.

Birkin, just leaned against the wall. Between his anger and fear over almost losing Wesker, he was literally shaking. "What if..." Birkin started to ask the dingy ceiling, "what if  _I_  had done something like that?"

Wesker visibly stiffened, but masked the movement by pulling the simple shirt over his head. "You'd be dead," he responded dryly.

Birkin sighed. "Yes I know that, Al. You're missing the point."

"No I'm not," argued Wesker, walking over to his understandably distraught partner.

Birkin slowly moved his eyes away from the ceiling to lock with Wesker's, taking advantage of one of the rare times he wasn't shielding them with dark lenses to really search those stormy blue eyes.

"Things will get worse," his voice was stern and completely frank in nature. "A lot worse."

Birkin took in a shaky breath. He knew where this was going, but he didn't want it to go there. "Al-"

Wesker held up a hand, stopping him from saying anything further. "That incident in the Guard House was nothing. Before the end, if I follow through with  _it..._ " they both knew what, " _it_ " was: Wesker's revenge against all of Umbrella. Wesker just shook his head, wet hair falling partially into his face. "That will just be the surface. Why do you think I spend all that time training? Why did you think I even got a hold of a gun?"

"Al...I know I just-"

Again he was cut off. "When things get bad, and they probably will regardless of what I do..." He trailed off. "After today you can't tell me that an outbreak isn't inevitable at some point. Hell, I'd even say Lord Spencer wants there to be one."

Birkin's brow knitted together. "Why would you say that?"

Wesker laughed dryly. "He built the mansion in the middle of a forest. There is a whole ecosystem out there just begging to be exposed. We already know the virus crosses species. Not just other mammals but insects, reptiles, birds are a safe bet too, and even plants. When you have something like that on your hands, you store it in a desert or even the antarctic like our dead little friend Alexia. You don't set it in the middle of a whole mountain side of potential hosts. That's like begging an accident to happen."

"M-maybe but, Al that's crazy. Why would Spencer want an outbreak?" Birkin reasoned. "That doesn't make sense. He...he probably just didn't know Progenitor's and Tyrant's full potential when he built this place."

Wesker sighed and stepped back. "If that's the case, why didn't he move us and the virus somewhere else? He certainly has the funds. Why risk everything like that?"

Birkin shook his head. "I-I don't know. But this is completely off topic!"

Wesker laughed. "Is it? We both agree that things will get very bad in the future, near or far, correct?"

"Yes," ventured Birkin hesitantly.

"Well, when we're being attacked by B.O.W.s I don't think you'll be the one keeping us safe."

Birkin opened his mouth to respond but Wesker didn't give him the chance.

"I agree that what I did today was rather...rushed and possible ill thought out. But how else am I going to know how to react when it's really important."

Birkin glared. " _That's_ your idea of preparing? Forgive me, Al but that sounds stupid and reckless." He shook his head. "No, you know what? Forget 'sounds,' that  _is_  stupid and reckless."

Wesker folded his arms. "Do you have a better idea?"

"N-no..." admitted Birkin at length, "not currently, but I will." He paused, still glaring. He knew Wesker. Wesker would pursue this ridiculous vendeta no matter what he said to the contrary. And worse, he'd get himself killed doing it.

Birkin took a deep shaking breath. He knew someday it would come to this, he just wished it wasn't today, that he'd told Marcus to do his own damn experiments, that he could still protect Albert from the chaos Umbrella had thrown at him—he'd been doing a real bang up job so far.

"If you want to train to kill B.O.W.s—of all the foolish things you could decide to do—you aren't going to do it half cocked." Birkin informed him firmly. He may have not been able to protect Wesker in the traditional sense, but perhaps he could protect him from his own reckless nature. "The environments will be strictly controlled, you will be properly outfitted, you will have some form of a backup plan in case things go wrong and..." Birkin shivered, he couldn't believe he was assisting in this. "We'll have to make it look like we're just gathering combat data. In fact, it's probably better if Umbrella doesn't even know it's you doing it."

"I didn't think you'd be so on board with this," Wesker smirked.

Birkin's glare deepened. "I'm not. And if you want my help at all you are doing it my way."

Wesker nodded slowly. "I think I can handle that."

Birkin didn't look pleased despite the agreement but there wasn't really anything he could do about it. Once Wesker got something in his head, it was nigh impossible to change his mind. "Now apologize for earlier and I'll call it even."

Wesker raised an eyebrow but it was clear by Birkin's expression that he wasn't going to back down on this. In the end Wesker just waved his hand dismissively before starting to walk off. "I'm sure there is no need to verbalize how I feel on the subject." He looked back over his shoulder smirking. "You know me so well after all."

Birkin wanted to tear his hair out as he followed the grinning blond out of the Guard House. "Do you know how much I, fucking hate you, Al?"

"Hmm..." Wesker pretended to consider it for a moment. "Not much at all if our love life and that sappy little speech you gave earlier is anything to go by."

Birkin's glare deepened. "At this rate, you're liable to be killed by me before another B.O.W. even gets a chance at you," Birkin threatened. "I'm not even half joking, Al! You're going to drive me insane!"

* * *

_March 23rd_ _, 1986; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

Things had quieted down since the fiasco in the Guard House. In fact they almost felt normal again. From time to time Wesker still felt the strain his request and agenda had put on Birkin and their relationship, but he was confident his friend would come around. Everything he'd told Birkin outside the decontamination chamber had been the truth and Birkin knew it. It was logical and Birkin was the most logic driven man Wesker had ever met.

Even so, Wesker's rather crazy idea had not been mentioned since and, in a rare show of understanding, Wesker had wisely not brought it up, waiting for Birkin to broach the topic when he was ready. In the long run, it would save time. Birkin could be a real mule about things when he wasn't a hundred percent on board. More than that, Wesker hadn't even brought up the fact that Annette was still hanging around the lab like a giant obnoxious fly.

Wesker's sudden run of sensitivity could be explained by one simple fact. Aside from his previous stated reasons, Birkin's birthday was coming up, in fact, it was today. In short, Wesker was, perhaps trying to make up for earlier and blaming it on the fact that Birkin was turning twenty four. However, Wesker's patience, as usual, was wearing thin. The fact was, they were here in the lab on the morning of William's twenty fourth birthday—a fact that was obviously lost on the man—slaving away over overly examined specimens and documents.

Wesker sighed as Birkin got up again and then returned with yet  _another_  file a few minutes later which he began rapid flipping through, probably looking for another piece of irreverent information. Leaning over slightly Wesker was able to make out that it was one of the Guard House logs from March twentieth.

"Will," started Wesker, trying and almost succeeding in keeping the annoyance out of his voice, "Why are you looking through Doctor Marcus's experiment files?"

"I don't know..." muttered Birkin in the voice he used when he was deep in thought, wanted to be left alone to his work, and was paying minimal attention to the person speaking.

Wesker had had enough of that tone a long time ago.

"You do know I already sent him the report?" Wesker informed Birkin, still trying to keep his voice even.

"Oh?" replied the still completely absorbed scientist.

The continued treatment caused Wesker's brow to twitch in annoyance. "And how much longer are you  _planning_  to spend looking something so  _useless_  to us?" questioned Wesker, more of his true feeling showing through.

"As many as it takes," came the unemotional response. "There is something off about the final report that doesn't match up..."

Wesker began tapping his fingers in annoyance on the metal table. "Will...you know how you told me to tell you up front when I was pissed so I didn't explode later?"

"Mmm?"

"Well. I'm. Pissed," seethed Wesker, pausing for emphasis on each word. "This is  _pointless_ , we're done doing Doctor Marcus's dirty work and I'm done with the goddamned Guard House! Who cares if there is something wrong with those idiots' reports! Can we please put this to bed?!" Wesker froze. "Will?"

No response.  
"Will..."

Nothing.

"Are you even listening to me, dammit?!"

Birkin slowly placed the paper down on the desk, wide eyes turning to lock with Wesker's ever shielded ones. "Al...you'll want to see this..." he informed Wesker pointing at a line on the page.

Wesker glared daggers at him. "I'm not going to look at your ridiculous report! You weren't even god dammed  _listening_  to me!"

"It's not ridiculous!" explained Birkin hurriedly, excitement palpable in his voice. "And yes, I heard everything you've said, you're pissed because we're still messing with Marcus's failed experiments and I'm ignoring you, but, Al, this is  _really_  important!" cried Birkin gesturing to the page frantically. "Just look at it!"

Wesker just folded his arms and glared at him. "So you not only ignored me, you did it intentionally?" Oh he was  _really_  livid now.

"Al,  _please_!" he begged.

Wesker finally relented, though he was far from pleased about it.

What he saw caused most of his anger to vanish. He didn't quite comprehend what he was looking at.

"I thought it was weird because the final report said that we lost all  _five_  U.B.C.S. agents to the B.O.W.s and that their were no survivors. But I distinctly remember their being six—three in the first group and then the other three I sent in after you and that one of the latter made it out," Birkin explained quickly. "So I started checking the other reports and they'd all been visibly altered to say five except this one." Birkin pointed to the one Wesker was still staring at. "Doctor Sarton's report on Plant 27's performance. It was locked up in his office for a few days and I had to call to get it sent down." He waved a hand dismissively. "Anyways, whoever was altering the reports missed this one. More importantly, the name of the sixth agent is..." He trailed off.

"Wesker..." whispered the blond next to him.

Staring him straight in the face were letters spelling out the name,  _Hiro Wesker_. It was impossible. Why had a Wesker been  _here_  of all places, and lumped in with a bunch of trainees slated for death? It was obvious someone had made a mistake by how quickly and sloppily they were trying to cover it up...but still. How did someone make  _that_  big of a mistake?

Wesker tried to remember anything and everything about the once meaningless agent but nothing too distinctive came to mind. He hadn't stood out from the rest aside from young age—mid teens, but Wesker had seen younger men die at the cost of their experiments—his slight stature that was rather on the short side, and his nationality—he was obviously Asian. But none of that had seemed too odd at the time. He hadn't said anything or made himself stand out in any way from the others—aside from the fact he'd survived. Perhaps Wesker was imagining it now that he was trying to come up with something, but he thought he remembered the quiet boy staring at him a lot.

It killed him inside. He'd actually met another Wesker. Someone who may have had some of the many answers he was desperate to find, and he hadn't even noticed. He felt like an imbecile.

"I can look into it if you want. Review the footage—if that hasn't already been erased too—even inquire at the local U.B.C.S. headquarters-"

Wesker cut him off by slapping a hand over his mouth.

"No. It's obvious that whoever sent him didn't want me knowing he was a Wesker. Actually, it probably was a mistake. If we look into it too much...it could be trouble," Wesker commanded firmly. They certainly didn't need any more of  _that_. "Besides," Wesker shook his head, "not today. If we do pursue this further, it will be tomorrow."

Birkin pulled his head back, blinking at his partner in confusion. "But...why I don't understand what-"

"Today is the twenty third of March," Wesker stated blankly.

It took a while to register, then once it did, only a small surprised, "Oh..." followed.

Wesker sighed, pushing all thoughts of the other Wesker from his mind, and then pulled Birkin over by latching a hand around the back of his neck so that he could kiss his forehead. "Happy Birthday, Dearheart."

Today would be the farthest thing from "happy," today was the day everything broke...again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you can all tell where this is going... This is very sad but very inevitable and necessary in order for the story to advance. I hope you have enjoyed reading this pairing as much as I have enjoyed writing for them.
> 
> On another small note, I completely made up Birkin's middle name as well as Annette's maiden name since they were never revealed in the series, archives, or any related material. 
> 
> Also, in case anyone was wondering, yes, Hiro Wesker will be an important returning character in the Third Cycle. 
> 
> I hope you have enjoyed the story so far. I'll see you next update for the last chapter in the Second Cycle,
> 
> -Asiera


	15. PG12A/W: Everything Breaks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things in Wesker's life have a tendency to collapse around him, betray him in the most horrendous of ways, or just plain try to kill him. He's used to this. He expects it. But nothing could have ever prepared him for the blow that would shatter him to the core or from where the assault would come. William was the only person in this horrible world he thought he could trust.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The below chapter contains explicit sexual content. If this is something the bothers you, the "clean-ish" version can be found on my FanFiction account, here: http://www.fanfiction.net/s/8664148/15/Project-W
> 
> If you're fine with this material, by all means continue reading.
> 
> Due to the highly emotional ending to this chapter, I'm placing my usual end note up here so I don't ruin the vibe. I have a lot to talk about since this is a cycle end, sorry...
> 
> So...insane chapter I know. I've certainly never written anything this drama oriented hence why I spent to much time editing and having a few of my friends look it over; the last thing I wanted was for this to read like a soap opera (please tell me it doesn't).
> 
> I thought a lot about the emotions Wesker expresses near the last bit of this chapter and whether or not it would be in character for him to do so. In the end, my conclusion was: Wesker is not a robot and despite how much he acts like a cold heartless bastard on the outside, he's still human and has real emotions on the inside. So, while he'd probably never express himself as such to anyone else, I think it was perfectly fine to have him do so in private. This is further supported by the fact that this Wesker has not made the full transformation into the Wesker from say, RE5. In short, I stand by my decision.
> 
> The next section of this story will mostly be me making it up as I go with a lot of creative license taken since there is basically nothing known about the time between Wesker's days in the lab and his time on S.T.A.R.S.. Just that he was in the Information Department.
> 
> I will be drawing a lot from RE content that would otherwise not be visited (movies, extra games, and the S.D. Perry books). Of course I won't be following them to a T as I have basically been doing with the RE history up to this point and will be in the future with the games (I find it amusing that we're 376 pages in and still haven't even touched on Resident Evil or Resident Evil 0 yet). Please don't interpret this as I will be say...adding Alice as a character or something along those lines. I would never do anything close to that. It's more like I'll be giving little "shout outs" here and there to certain aspects of otherwise not included RE material.
> 
> Also, expect to see several of my highly developed almost original characters return (Laura and a certain "evil" Wesker twin, etc...), as well as some new additions of a similar origin (think a few more Wesker Children form Alex's list in RE5), and finally, I'll be bringing in some classic RE characters with a very new twist to their back stories.
> 
> I hope all of you will enjoy this highly personal take on the next section of Wesker's life and I look forward to your continued support in the next highly uncharted chapters.
> 
> -Asiera

**Project W: Second Cycle**

**PG12A/W: Everything Breaks**

_March 23rd, 1986; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

“William?” Annette's questioning call rang through the seemingly empty lab. She could have sworn he and Dr. Wesker were down here working, but as far as she could see, the entire room was empty. “Doctor Birkin?” she called again, making her way into the seemingly empty lab.

She stopped dead in her tracks when she heard a crash followed by muffled swearing coming from the lab's break room. Thinking correctly the pair must be in there, she redirected her steps towards the darkened room.

Wesker and Birkin had been deeply... “involved” on one of the break room's couches when Annette had first entered the lab this afternoon. Upon her calling out the name Wesker had moaned just seconds ago as he accosted the subject of her search beneath his body, Wesker had jerked off of Birkin so quickly and violently that he'd wound up on the floor with the room's floor lamp on top of him, exclaiming a few choice swear words in the process.

Birkin had blinked at his partner in shock from a very comprising position of his own on the disheveled cushions. It wasn't until he heard Annette's second call that he realized why Wesker was frantically pulling up his trousers. Birkin immediately jumped to his own feet and started retrieving his discarded clothing items and replacing them at a rapid pace.

It was a miracle that they managed to get themselves mostly decent by the time Annette came through that door.

Annette unknowingly took in the odd scene, a curious frown on her lip. Birkin's face was bright red as he finished pulling on his lab coat and Wesker's sunglasses were slightly askew as was his usually perfectly styled, blond hair which was falling haphazardly around his face and sticking up at odd angles in the back. Yet all of this amounted to close to nothing when compared to the vicious look Wesker was giving her; it actually caused her to step back a bit, staring nervously at the glaring blond. All in all, Annette had no idea how to interpret this very strange situation.

“Did-” Birkin cleared his throat, trying to get the remaining huskiness out of his voice Wesker had put there once he'd presented his real argument for why they shouldn't be working today. “Did you need something, Annette?” he asked nervously, hoping that she hadn't figured out what was really going on between Wesker and himself. He was also praying that this would be a quick interruption; Wesker looked about ready to kill the woman.

“Oh,” she startled, her bright blue eyes returning to a still rather flushed Birkin. “Yes I...” She took a breath, suddenly adding quite a bit of urgency to her voice, her expression going completely serious. “Something's happened down in the Guard House. I'm not sure, but I think one of the experiments got out. They need you and Doctor Wesker down there right away!”

Wesker couldn't help but be suspicions about the sudden change in Annette’s demeanor. If there was _really_ something going on in that godforsaken building she would have come in shouting from the get go, not to mention their phones would have been ringing off the hook. He knew this fact hadn't escaped Birkin either—the man never missed a thing unless he had his head buried deeply in his research—but it seemed the prospect that something so (predictably) catastrophic had occurred at the neighboring facility was enough to get him to ignore the inconsistency between her tone and her message.

“Oh my God...” Birkin shook his head quickly, still trying to get rid of the Wesker induced fog filling his brain. “Right, we're coming.” The look he shot at Wesker clearly communicated that this would _not_ be a quick interruption. Funny how Wesker's earlier assumptions about an outbreak seemed almost prophetic now... Perhaps he shouldn't have put it off for as long as he had.

Sighing, Wesker nodded, but instead of moving to follow the already retreating Annette, he walked over to the work desk he and Birkin shared at the back of the room. Unlocking one of the side drawers, he pulled out the powerful gun he kept hidden there: The same mangnum he'd used three days ago to clear out the botched Guard House experiments.

Wesker usual practice with the firearm in the make shift shooting range he'd constructed in the surrounding forest had increased exponentially since the twentieth. So much so that it was hardly a secret anymore. As he was one of the two ruling authorities at the mansion, no one gave him any grief about it—this probably had something to do with the fact that anyone who did would probably end up in his and Birkin's experiments...or perhaps shot. Wesker wasn't sure if Umbrella knew about his shooting practices or would even care if they did, but regardless, it was comforting to have some form of absolute protection against the hoards of creatures contained within their facilities. Sill, if this “outbreak” was real—not that he really believed Annette for a moment—increased target practice was far from adequate training for such a disaster.

Once Wesker had checked to make sure the familiar weight in his hands was in full working order, slammed what he was now sure was a full clip into place, and pocketed a few extra magazines, Wesker moved to the door where Birkin and a wide eyed Annette were waiting.

“Um...” she stuttered staring down at the deadly weapon held in Wesker's right hand, not really sure she liked being so close to him at the moment. “I don't think...do you really need that?”

Wesker gave her a look that clearly told her he thought she was extremely unintelligent. “If there _is_ a B.O.W. or possible B.O.W.s loose in the Guard House, I'll not only want a gun but need it,” he informed her coolly. “Unless of course...there really is no situation worthy of this,” he flashed the magnum in front of her, relishing in the way she filched back, “or our presence. Then I'll be happy to stay behind with it.”

The combination of his tone and words told Annette in no uncertain terms that he didn't buy her story for a second. Unfortunately, she was not so quick to give up whatever game she was playing. Her features once again schooled, she shook her head adamantly. “No, you're right. But really, we're wasting time!”

She was determined...He'd give her that much.

“Let's go!” With that she turned and jogged hurriedly to the end of the hall the other two scientists having no real choice but to follow her.

Annette swore to herself as she ran with the two men towards the fake emergency. She _really_ disliked Wesker. She'd been put off by the cold natured blond since the day she'd set foot in this facility, but that unease was quickly turning into a mixture of hatred and almost fear. There was definitely something very “off” about that man. She had no idea how or why William put up with him. Perhaps Wesker was threatening the other man somehow?

Annette pushed the thought from her head. There would be time to deal with that later. Right now she had to worry about keeping Wesker from shooting any of the well meaning scientists at the Guard House...

* * *

  _March 23rd , 1986; Spencer Estate Guard House:_

“ _SURPRISE!!_ ”

Wesker nearly shot someone.

There was no B.O.W. loose down here, the only thing that slipped its carefully constructed bindings was the secret of the day on which Birkin's birthday fell. Though how such a thing had come to pass... Wesker's gaze fell on the beaming Annette and darkened. Of course _she_ had something to do with this. How she'd figured it out was another mystery entirely.

Wesker glanced to the left at his partner who was somehow managing to blush crimson while looking as white as a ghost—a strange combination indeed—in response to being shouted to by what looked to be every last scientist who worked in the Guard House packed tightly into the facility's two story common room.

Wesker sighed, stuffing the cool metal of the gun he'd almost drawn farther beneath his lab coat. So much for keeping today a private affair between the two of them.

“I...do hope you don't mind, William,” Annette tested tentatively, “but once I told them, everyone was thrilled at the thought of throwing you, one of the most talented scientists in Umbrella, this party.” She beamed hopefully at him, trying not to look at his obviously less than pleased partner.

And there was the flirting again...Wesker really wished he'd let his instinct to shoot take over when they'd been verbally assaulted upon entering the large common room...and that it had been Annette who'd been directly in front of him. What an _unfortunate_ “accident” that would have been. Simply tragic...

Birkin rather skittishly turned to the obviously hopeful Annette, still eying the other scientists with suspicion. “Annette...how...how did you know?” He glanced quickly at Wesker. “Al, did you...?”

“I had _nothing_ to do with this,” the blond responded coldly, his expression a blank mask.

Annette smiled a bit mischievously. “Oh...I have my ways.” She winked, and quite suddenly her delicate hands were around Birkin's arm. “Come on! One of the guys even picked up a cake!”

Birkin protested, his now frantic eyes darting back over to Wesker, hoping for an expedient rescue. “I-I'd really love to Annette, but I...we have experiments we _have_ to perform. I'm sorry I-”

“Will,” Annette whined, cutting him off in a way that made Wesker want to strangle her. It was bad enough she called him “William” but “Will?” _that_ was crossing the line. “You're always working _so_ hard. One day won't kill you, especially your birthday.”

Aside from the silly female tone and word choice, that's exactly what Wesker had said to him before they'd dragged each other into the break room to start their own private little celebration; something this pretentious woman was still happily interrupting.

“I-” Birkin didn't get another chance to object before he was dragged away into the crowd of scientists who really couldn't care less about Birkin, but were just thrilled to get a brief holiday from Umbrella's terrible work schedule.

* * *

Between the tightly packed, rather rambunctious crowd and the groups of enamored scientists either asking him about his and Birkin's most recent tests with the Tyrant, or looking for approval for more of their absurd experiments, it took Wesker nearly twenty minutes to finally catch up with Birkin and the woman who'd stolen him. Mentally, Wesker was uttering a whole slew of swear words in response to the dreadful situation he'd been dragged into. This was perhaps worse then the recent trip he'd made down to Raccoon City. He hated crowds; swarms of foolish people with no useful purpose. It was even worse when they sought him out and attempted to interact with him.

That was it! He didn't care anymore! He was killing Dr. Annette Sparks! Of course...first he had to find her, and more importantly, Birkin.

He was just telling Doctor Sarton, another researcher who had cornered him, in no uncertain terms that he was _not_ to move his crazy plant experiments to the facility's main hall no matter how big they were getting when he caught sight of Birkin's familiar mop of messy blond hair. Quickly excusing himself from the conversation with the man he still blamed for his and Birkin's near death experience, Wesker moved over towards William.

The newly turned twenty four year old was surrounded by a circle of researchers, including Annette, all of whom were aptly listening to his description of how the Tyrant-Virus had been discovered; practically hanging on his every word.

Wesker froze. He couldn't help but notice, aside from the fact that Birkin was severely downplaying Dr. Marcus's part and almost implicating that the discovery of T could solely be attributed to himself and Wesker, that Birkin looked to be really... _enjoying_ it. The older blond had to remind himself that, while this situation—thrown in a buzzing room filled with idiots who all wanted something from him—might have been torture to Wesker, for William it was quite the opposite; the man _loved_ all the positive attention and practically thrived on their meaningless praise.

Wesker supposed he shouldn't be shocked. Birkin had always been like this. His parents' constant drive to perfection but rare praise probably helped to shape him in such a way. He sighed. Well, William _was_ supposed to be having fun today...

As if he could feel Wesker's shaded gaze, Birkin looked over his shoulder an instantly locked eyes with his partner. Hurriedly, Birkin dismissed himself from Annette and his ring of admirers and walked briskly over to the glowering blond.

“Hey,” he breathed nervously. “Sorry, I didn't see where you went. I um...kinda thought you just left me here. I know how you hate these kinds of things...” he finished, running a hand over the back of his neck.

“Not quite,” assured Wesker evenly. “Though I must admit, I was tempted.”

The older blond eyed the drink in his partner's hand cautiously. Wesker knew from past “experiments” in the mansion's bar room that neither of them could hold their liqueur worth a damn, and Birkin was even worse than he was. Wesker still remembered with a shudder what had happened at the last Umbrella sponsored banquet they'd been to in commemoration for the discovery of Tyrant. Birkin drank when he was nervous and after that...well, let's just say Wesker had had to give that speech for him.

“Did you want to leave?” Birkin inquired hesitantly.

_Yes._

“No...it's fine. You seem to be having quite a bit of fun here.”

Birkin gave him a knowing look. He knew Wesker; knew how much he must be hating the current circumstances. He also didn't miss the slight strain in his partner's voice. Wesker's silver tongue might be able to easily fool everybody else, but tricking Birkin was another matter entirely.

“Al, really. We can go.” He smiled. “I'd much rather spend the day with you anyways.”

Wesker should have taken him up on the offer, should have whisked him away from this damnable place, but he was trying out this new tactic of being nice; something he was never going to do again for a _long_ time. Birkin had been through enough lately, most of it inflicted by Wesker. He deserved to enjoy this.

Mind made up, Wesker forced out a rather convincing laugh. “Will, you spend everyday with me. Besides,” he continued, carefully maintaining his tone and expression, “when are you going to have another opportunity like this?”

Birkin was slightly taken aback by Wesker's very uncharacteristically unselfish words. No way he believed their earnestness for a second. “Al...if this is about your thing with Annette-”

“I do not have a 'thing' with Annette!” shot Wesker heatedly, his gentle facade cracking. “Yes, I hate her beyond words and yes, I am actively plotting her very untimely demise even as we speak-” Birkin couldn't help but to laugh at Wesker's honesty “-but that has nothing to do with what I just said.”

Wesker sighed. “I want you to have fun, Will. It's your damned birthday for heaven's sake and it's about time you spent one not hanging over a microscope. It only makes sense that at least one of our birthdays should be pleasant, and it sure as hell isn't going to be mine,” he huffed in annoyance. “Yes, I was planning to spend it with you, but this blasted party isn't going to last all day and I can busy myself in other ways until you finish here,” concluded Wesker, being sure to inform Birkin that, while it was fine if he stayed behind, Wesker was certainly not waiting in the dreadful place.

Birkin blinked at him for a moments in shock of Wesker's disgruntled, yet quite sincere attempt at kindness; a gesture that usually alluded him. Then he was hugging Wesker and chuckling slightly, careful to make sure that to anyone watching them, the embrace looked nothing more than friendly. “Okay Al, you win. I'll hang out here until they get the cake cut—I'm sure that won't be too much longer—and then I'll meet you back upstairs.” He hesitated. “Thank you. That was very sweet.”

Wesker winced as Birkin pulled back from the hug. “Sweet? Call me that again and I'll release one of the B.O.W.s on the way out just to prove otherwise.”

Birkin laughed. “Fine. I'll just think it.”

Wesker rolled his eyes from behind his dark lenses. “Whatever.” He gestured to the glass in Birkin's hand. “Just try not to get too drunk...I don't want to have to come get you and discover you've been letting Annette put a few moves on you in your inebriated state.” It's not as though Wesker really believed his own warning, he'd just said it to be difficult. If he had been even the slightest bit suspicious that something along those lines would occur, things would have turned out a lot differently.

Birkin flushed. “Honestly, Al?” He laughed as Wesker turned to go. “You worry about the silliest things.”

Wesker said something inaudible and waved unceremoniously over his shoulder before disappearing into the crowd once again, leaving Birkin to his own devices.

Wesker never should have left him alone.

* * *

  _March 23rd, 1986; Spencer Estate Guard House:_

Birkin had no idea how he'd become so intoxicated—he recalled only having two of three drinks...okay maybe four of five, it was difficult to remember—or how it had gotten so late—a glance to his rather cheap wrist watch showed that it was well into the nine o'clock hour. Many of the other scientists had long ago gone back to their research or had wandered off to the other entertainments offered in the Guard House commons, leaving him and Annette alone at the bar; something the woman was quite thrilled about.

Birkin looked over at his female companion, who smiled back at him sweetly, her cheeks slightly flushed from the levels of alcohol she'd already consumed, one finger lazily stirring around the ice clinking pleasantly in her glass. Maybe it was the alcohol, the soft lighting falling gently on her features, or some combination thereof, but it suddenly struck him that she looked quite beautiful.

Did he just think that?! What the hell was wrong with him? It was true that he'd always known she was attractive—such a fact was just impossible to miss—but he had never; _should_ never have thought of her like he'd just did. _That_ was how he thought of Albert.

Birkin tried to shake his head, but the pleasant buzzing fog that was the primary cause for such inappropriate ideas refused to vacate his now much less brilliant brain. His sudden bought of nervousness at his mind's current train of thought caused him to carelessly shoot back the remaining befuddling liquid from the glass in front of him.

“So...” started Annette playfully, drawing his attention back to her gentle features. Her cheek now rested comfortably on her hand, elbow propped on the bar table. “Did you enjoy the party?”

“Y-yes...it was nice,” he admitted, his tone suddenly shy. “Thank you for doing this.”

“Not a problem. I love it when you smile,” she informed him, easily doing as much.

He mentally winced. This situation was quickly going from bad to worse. Trying to expel any awkwardness from settling in, Birkin grasped at the first topic that came to mind. “How did you know? You know, that today was my birthday...I mean?” he inquired, tripping over his words.

She didn't seem to take notice. “Promise you won't get mad?” she questioned, looking coyly up at him from behind her graceful black lashes.

Did she always wear that much makeup? It wasn't heavy or anything she just looked...different than usual. It was nice.

He swallowed. “Okay, I promise,” he answered meekly.

Annette smiled and shifted herself into a more comfortable position on the bar stool; one that was slightly closer to him. The movement from her petite form caused her perfume to waft up towards him, assaulting him with a soft mixture of warm spices that reminded him of bit of kitchen around the holidays. It was a calming sweet aroma that matched her perfectly and he found himself leaning in imperceptibly closer to follow it.

Adequately re-situated, a maneuver that involved her uncrossing and then re-crossing her bare legs extending from the hem of her gray pencil skirt that had replaced her typical khaki colored trousers tonight, she began her explanation. “I'll admit it...I snooped.” She grinned guiltily at him, an expression that only succeeded in making her look more appealing. “Sorry, I know I shouldn't have-”

“No, no...it's fine,” he found himself blurting.

She smiled again. “You're sweet, William. But anyways, I was in the mail room and...well,” she reached into her open lab coat's pocket and produced a carefully taped together, slightly sparkling card, “I found this.”

Despite his familiarity with the overly neat cursive adorning the card, in Birkin's current state it took him a few moments to recognize the origin of the item Annette was holding out to him.

“Where did you...?” Unsure how to finish, he left the question hanging in the air as he clumsily grasped the repaired card.

“From the trash can in the mail room,” she revealed slowly. “I really wouldn't have looked,” she clarified quickly, “but I saw your last name on the envelope and Doctor Wesker was just walking out...I just...sorry...” she finished lamely.

“No, it's alright...” he muttered again as he forced his eyes to focus on the small writing, taking in the message adorning the light cream colored paper on the typical birthday card from his parents. “Albert was leaving?” he questioned vaguely, slowly putting the picture together of what had transpired in his buzzing mind.

“Yeah,” she nodded. “I kind of assumed he was the one that had thrown it out...of course I could be wrong,” she retracted hurriedly, not wanting to offend the young scientist sitting next to her.

Birkin returned her nod, thankfully not seeming to have taken offense. “Yes...” he agreed slowly. “That does sound like something he'd do.”

Wesker's persistent intolerance and anger at anyone close to Birkin was nothing new, but sometimes...sometimes it was quite grating. On any other occasion, when Birkin's mind was functioning at its usual brilliant level, he would have been quick to remind himself that this “overprotective” nature was one of the biggest manifestations of just how much Wesker cared about and needed him. But at the moment, for some strange reason, William didn't want to think of Wesker, and as a result, all he felt was tired; tired of how Wesker always became so upset every time one of these ridiculous cards showed up in the mail; tired of his always short temper; tired of his apparent loathing of their, and particularly, Birkin's research; and most of all, tired of how much stress and danger Albert's personal vendetta against Umbrella was adding to their lives, especially now that he was planning on adding B.O.W. Hunter to the list. He _knew_ Wesker's anger wasn't directed at him, even if the blond did take a fair amount of it out on Birkin, but there was a disconnect right now, one that could easily be faulted on the alcohol rushing through his system and the entirely different intoxicating effect Annette was having on him.

“Why would he do that?” asked Annette innocently, pulling Birkin back from the thoughts he was struggling to understand.

Annette herself still didn't comprehend the complexity of the strange relationship Wesker and Birkin had, and she certainly didn't want to step out of place and offend the doctor beside her. This was the first time she'd been able to talk to Birkin without Wesker listening from the shadows or hanging over his colleague's shoulder; she was _not_ going to mess up this rare opportunity. If she did...she'd probably get transferred to this crazy facility; demoted and that much farther away from Birkin.

This obsession with the young extremely talented doctor was foolish. She'd told herself that countless times. She _should_ be focused on ensuring her future here at Umbrella, but such self advice had proved useless. Partly because one of the best ways to safeguard her future _was_ to become irreplaceable to Doctor William Birkin, but mostly, it was because idea of being that close to him sent a thrill of excitement through her body every time she thought of it.

“He...” Birkin sighed heavily, easily drawing Annette back in. “I don't have a 'great' relationship with my family.” He laughed awkwardly. “Sometimes I think Al has a bigger problem with them than I do.”

“You...don't want to talk about it, huh?” she inquired astutely.

He shrugged. Of course he didn't want to talk about it. It had taken him years to tell Wesker, but for some reason, he did anyways. “Not much to tell really. All they cared about was my constant success; first in the academic side of things and then with my career. The rest was just show. That's...kinda how I ended up here,” he finished, suddenly loathing how loose his lips had become. But it was a dim sort of distaste; a light pricking at the back of his mind that would only later turn into a searing flame of regret for everything that had and would take place tonight.

Annette placed a warm hand on his shoulder. He thought he'd pull away but instead, urged on by the pleasant fuzziness clouding his mind, he found himself accepting, no embracing the light touch and taking comfort from it.

“I'm sorry, William. That must have been awfully hard on you growing up like that,” she said soothingly, her thumb rubbing a small gentle circle on his shoulder blade; an area that, along with his neck and back seemed to collect all the vast amounts of stress and tension that he was exposed to over the day. Right now, aided by her kind touch, he felt all the stress thinking about the past and desperately planning for the future brought to him softly melting away into a stream of warm carelessness.

He took another drink out of his seemingly ever refilling glass. A Part of his mind he wasn't really aware of knew that it was steady shots of alcohol into his system that was keeping him floating in this nearly mindless bliss; a carelessness that a deep, nearly visceral warning was trying to steer him away from, but that was something he didn't want right now, so instead he chose to dull and ignore it.

It was a mistake. One that would cost him dearly.

Oh, she was talking again. It wasn't so much that he cared what she was saying. Her voice, it just had a soothing almost melodic quality to it; something that was very pleasing to his ears. It was almost as fascinating as the manner in which her lips moved when her words left them...almost.

Why should he feel so wrong thinking about the soft warm feeling her lips would bring to his should they meet...? There was something...

“So, just how close are you and Doctor Wesker?” She asked, rather playfully nudging him with her foot under the bar once she'd finished her own very short version of her particular lack of a normal childhood—seemed the theme was common one among Umbrella scientists. “It's just, if he knows too—about your past—than you two must be quite good friends.” She sipped her own, much fruitier method of numbing rational thought. “I heard you and he have been working together almost since you joined Umbrella.”

She laughed, a light tinkling sound that caused a few of the butterflies flitting intermittently around in William's stomach to stir up again. “I don't know how you do it, the guy kinda creeps me out.”

She was trying to keep things light. That look Birkin had just been giving her, it made her think that maybe... No, there was no way she'd get _that_ lucky tonight. At the very least she could possibly shed some light on what kept the two very different scientists so closely held together, though whether she'd remember it or not was another story entirely.

Annette hardly ever drank. In fact, this was the most liquor she'd ever remembered consuming. But if it kept Birkin talking and continued to settle the nerves in her stomach, she'd stay seated at this bar all night with him.

_Wesker._

The name resonated like a bell of momentary clarity in his foggy mind. Suddenly he felt wrong, uncomfortable, and guilty as hell. It was horrible. He hated it.

In any other state of mind, Birkin would have clung to those feelings, the results of which would have caused him to throw his drink down, push away from Annette, and bolt out of this ridiculous party and straight into Wesker's waiting arms.

But he wasn't in his right mind, not even close. All he wanted to do was continue to feel this good; to allow the current beauty of the moment, enhanced by his alcoholic lenses, to continue to engulf him; shoving away everything bad, and keeping him warped in the false arms of safety for as long as possible.

He didn't want to think about the past or the rather foreboding future, all he wanted to live in was the fleetingly wonderful now.

“ _I want you to have fun, Will. … It only makes sense that at least one of our birthdays should be pleasant...”_

Wesker's parting words, horribly twisted, floated up from the depths of his mind, burning all the doubt and trepidation he'd had left from every crevice and neuron making up his consciousness.

“I...don't want to talk about Wesker right now.”

That was all he needed to let go. Everything; every precious moment and memory he'd had with Wesker and every last possibility of a future with the man he claimed to love slipping through his fingers as he did.

* * *

 _March 23rd_   _, 1986; Spencer Estate Guard House:_

Birkin wasn't even the slightest bit aware of how he'd gotten here, whose bed this was, or how'd he come to be pounding his burning need so desperately into Annette's welcoming body, squirming in an inebriated ecstasy he shared beneath him. All he knew was that he was shamelessly enjoying every last second of it as he buried himself repeatedly, deeply into the hot wet cavity between Annette's smooth shapely legs.

Everything after he'd let himself go at the bar and completely gave in to the charms of the woman he was now holding flush against his burning flesh was a blur he didn't care in the slightest to try and remember.

He couldn't think and certainly couldn't stop as he felt the unbridled elation from the dominance, the absolute, undeniable control he'd achieved for the first time during the act of intimacy when his body became one with another's. It was heavenly, and he carelessly moaned her name and other unintelligible things to anyone who cared to listen at the random door outside one of the Guard House's spare rooms. He never wanted it to end.

He was too wrapped up in the waves of unimaginable pleasure that were crashing over him at his first time being with a woman to care about anything else. To finally be able to bury his swollen cock in something else besides a pair of skilled hands or the bed sheets; to run his once again inept feeling hands over her full breasts, through her long silky hair, over her soft abdomen, and across the sensitive region between her thighs that was so alien to him...it was like nothing he'd ever imagined.

Annette's mind was also an incoherent mess mimicking the way she looked and felt, splayed out for Birkin on the bare mattress. She was no fool and as practical a woman as she was, never in a million years would she have thought that she'd allow herself to fall into the mindless depths of lust as she had now. She knew what happened to girls who gave a man such full access to their bodies as she was frantic to give Birkin tonight. They, in simple terms, got “knocked up.” They dropped out of school, off their career path, and otherwise strayed away from the life Annette wanted for herself.

Annette Sparks had always been a planner, someone who thought of and prepared for every circumstance. She'd always been careful with relationships and typically viewed them as an inconvenience or a danger, tempting her from her strict route. But the panting man on top of her, wrapped in her arms as her nails bit wantonly into his beautiful flesh, leaving her own marks next to the yet unseen, still fresh scratches Wesker had made this morning, was different. Birkin had completely blindsided her, knocked her off her carefully balanced feet, and left her a sputtering love-sick mess trailing on his coat tails, desperate to become more to him than just another faceless researcher.

She moaned aloud at the combination of Birkin's mouth and tongue on the nipple of one of her breasts and the realization that, while she was far off the road she'd painstakingly paved for herself, her trip through the uncharted wilderness hadn't been a waste. She'd gotten what she'd wanted most; she had Birkin, and God help her, she was never going to let him go; to hell with the consequences!

They both felt the climax building up between them, a desperate need that was impossible to ignore despite their similar wants for this not to be over so soon after the first sweet touches had turned into this burning whirlwind of melding bodies.

Annette felt the first stabs of fear begin to clutch at her trembling form a few moments after Birkin had taken her screaming over the edge, filling her with his seed in the process. Once she'd shyly looked up at the man she was now more determined than ever to spend the rest of her life with, she felt that fear increase exponentially. He looked like he wanted to die.

What Birkin felt crashing down upon him as reality began to shed its unyielding, unforgiving light on the situation was infinitely worse. _He'd_ _ **cheated**_ _on Wesker._ It was like ice water had just been dumped over his very soul. He felt sick, disgusting, horrible, wrong...the list could go on forever, each nasty word branding itself on his skin until he wanted to scream and cry.

It couldn't be real. This _didn't_ happen; it was a _dream_ a _delusion;_ it just couldn't be fucking _real!_ He wouldn't he _couldn't_ ruin everything; hurt Wesker like this!

But he did.

It was over. It was done. No matter how much he would give to take it back; to be currently held in Wesker's strong arms instead of Annette's trembling ones right now, he couldn't do a thing to change it. All he could do was hate himself.

“W-William?” she tried tentatively, running a hand over his heaving sides.

This wasn't how it was supposed to go. He was supposed to look at her like she was the most amazing creature he'd ever seen. He was supposed to hold her in his arms and kiss her softly. And goddammit, she didn't _care_ if she sounded like a hopeless romantic, he was _supposed_ to whisper he loved her into her burning ear. But regardless, that was _not_ want he was doing. He was looking at her like...like he hated what had just happened...like he hated _her_.

Annette didn't cry; she just wasn't that kind of girl, but she felt her throat tighten and her eyes start to burn as he recoiled from her touch, pulling away like she was something he'd never wanted to make contact with, let alone hold.

Birkin's abrupt retreat from the now terrified looking Annette only took him so far as the edge of the mattress before he just collapsed in on himself both emotionally and physically; holding his head, his lungs forcing in and out short gasps of air as his entire body panicked. He didn't know what to do. He just wanted it all to go away, but he knew such thoughts were only a fantasy.

It was the same as how he'd felt when his own carelessness had led Wesker to become infected with Tyrant, but this, this was somehow so much worse. That had been an accident. It was still his fault, but it had been completely unintentional. This...this was not only his fault.. it was... _intentional_. He'd done everything knowingly. Continuing to compare the two instances would be akin to him having actually shoved Wesker's hand onto the vials.

He felt a strangled gasp escape his tight throat as despair attempted to overcome him. He wouldn't be surprised if he lost Wesker over this. The thought was so chilling. He knew the weight of such a loss would crush him into a deep dark oblivion from which there was no hope of escape and it was _All. His. Fault._

Annette continued to watch in horror as her own dreams broke and shattered around her. He...he was crying. What had she done? What had she done to deserve this? She loved the man for God's sake! Why was he treating her like this?!

“William, look at me!” she screeched.

Birkin jerked up, his face pale, eyes red, staring in horror at the naked woman on the bed not a few feet from him.

Suddenly Annette deeply regretted commanding him to do so. As soon as his wide blue eyes were on her, she felt terribly self-conscious. The way he was staring at her made her feel like the most hideous creature on the planet right now and left her desperately wanting for something to hide her exposed body; a luxury the unfurnished room and bed neglected to supply. As a result, she just drew her knees up to her chest in an effort to hide most of her shaking form from the man she'd so happily stripped for a few minutes ago.

“Why are you doing this?” she managed to choke out, her wavering voice miles from where she wanted it to be in strength and determination. She looked away, no longer able to meet his gaze. “I don't understand what's wrong,” she whispered almost inaudibly as she desperately fought back the tears that threatened to spill for her shimmering eyes.

If William had been any less of a person, he would have used Annette as the perfect displacement for his guilt; he would have blamed it all on who he could have easily viewed as the stupid clueless girl who'd been trying to seduce him for months and had finally succeeded tonight at the bar. But Birkin wasn't foolish, and he wasn't cruel either. He was to blame, not her. Annette had just been dragged along for the ride, something he could tell by her actions, left her feeling absolutely miserable; something he could relate to wholeheartedly.

“A mistake,” he managed to force out, his voice cracking. “This was all a huge...huge mistake.”

Annette let a small sob escape her throat. That one word, “mistake;” it crushed every last bit of hope she'd been uselessly carrying around in her chest and left her feeling as cold as though she was sitting naked and alone in the storm raging outside.

“A _mistake_?” She was no longer able to fully contain the tears now trickling down her cheeks. “I-I don't understand,” she repeated hopelessly. How could _that_ have been a “mistake?” It was everything she'd wanted and dreamed about for the last two months. How was that wrong?

Birkin focused his blurred vision on his hands, clasped tightly to prevent them from shaking too badly. After that...after how royally he'd just screwed up three of the lives in this facility; after how deeply he was wounding her, she deserved to know.

“I...Wesker and I...” he swallowed, “I love him.” It was the first time Birkin had said those words out loud, a fact that caused his chest to twinge painfully as though someone was physically stabbing it.

What if he never got a chance to tell him that?

Annette blinked away her tears in confusion, mascara already running down her face. “W-what?” She had no idea what Birkin meant by that. The truth of the matter hadn't even occurred to her yet; it was just too absurd.

Birkin winced his eyes shut. “I've been with him for nine years! And this?” He could quite literally shoot himself right now for what he'd just done. “How could I do this to him...” He glanced briefly up at her. “I'm...I'm so sorry Annette. I shouldn't have-I don't know why-” He closed his eyes briefly. There was nothing he could say right now to fix what he'd done. “You shouldn't of had to go through this,” he whispered guiltily. “I'm...sorry.”

That little word wasn't even close to communicating how awful he felt.

Annette was only able to stare in horror at the man she'd just allowed to make love to her. Not only was he not the least bit interested, he was...with another man! Suddenly the words _Disgusting! Dirty! Tainted! Filthy! Slut!_ and, _Whore!_ all flew through her head, mentally branding her in the worst possible way.

“Oh God...” she muttered, hand moving to cover the entirety of her mouth.

Birkin sat there in silence for a few more minutes, his mind flashing from blank to uselessly searching for a non-existent solution to the horror he'd just immersed himself in, before he shakily pushed himself to his feet and began collecting and replacing his clothing. The entire time he felt Annette's eyes on him and he uselessly tried not to imagine the pain and hatred burning behind those usually beautiful orbs.

He couldn't face Annette. How was he going to face Wesker? The thought almost brought him to his knees as he walked to the door.

Before he allowed his hand to turn the knob, he took one final look at the woman he'd just broken nearly as badly as he'd torn himself. “Annette, I'm so-”

“Just go!” she cried harshly, gesturing violently to the door.

He nodded deftly and quickly escaped to room.

Annette waited until she'd heard the door click before she allowed herself to collapse to the bed, sobbing in earnest for her first real heartbreak. She was stupid; stupid for ever letting herself slip from her plan; from her path, and now she was paying the price for it.

Once she'd cried out every last tear in her body, she picked herself up, went back to her room in the mansion, signed the transfer sheet, left it on Birkin's desk, and began the arduous process of moving everything she had from the mansion into the Guard House—except her heart; that she left behind. The whole time she wished hopelessly to never again see the man who melted it and then ripped it out all in one fell swoop.

* * *

_March 23rd_ _, 1986; Spencer Estate Grounds:_

As soon as he'd left that horrid room where he quite possibly had ruined _everything_ good about his life, Birkin bolted. The Guard House disappeared moments later, throwing him out into the raging storm with its icy howling wind and biting rain; it was as though the very weather was punishing him for his mistake—as if he needed any help.

Birkin could barely see a few feet in front of him in this angry darkness, but he still kept running, stumbling blindly though the blackness. It was like part of him truly believed that if he ran fast enough, he could escape everything that had happened. Of course, this was the farthest thing from the truth. A few seconds later, the uneven, mud slick ground reminded him of this, catching his feet and slamming him ruthlessly into the slippery, rocky earth.

The pain he felt physically as he lay there in the mud was nothing compared to the emotional ache searing through his chest. Momentarily unable to force himself back up, Birkin curled in on himself and just cried.

He was so scared; so scared he'd lose everything. All he wanted was for Wesker to hold him in his strong arms and tell him it would be okay. But if he knew...God if he knew, Wesker would _never_ do that again, and so, Birkin just continued to sob.

* * *

_March 23rd, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Wesker sighed as he set down the book he'd been reading and checked the clock for about the millionth time that night. _Ten fifty four._ Birkin was certainly taking his sweet time. He'd been there since three.

“Be back as soon as they cut the cake my ass...” Wesker muttered heatedly.

He'd considered going to get Birkin starting around six but had convinced himself otherwise. Birkin could handle himself and Wesker had said he was going to let him spend the day as he wanted to. Unfortunately, Wesker had stood by that promise. If that was how William wanted to spend his birthday fine, he'd make him pay for it tonight when he fucked him.

The thought caused Wesker to grin as he re-picked up his rather poorly written true crime novel—what else was he supposed to do while he waited? He'd already exhausted all the readily available information on this Hiro Wesker and came up blank. Any further digging and someone would notice.

He was about to start reading again when he swore he heard footsteps outside in the hall, followed by the sound of the door across from him opening and slamming shut. This caused him pause; that room was Birkin's and no one had used it for years—well, except to contain his partner's paper mess.

Wesker hesitated for a moment before setting the paperback down and getting up to go check. Perhaps Birkin was too drunk to remember which side of the hall they slept on.

What Wesker saw once he'd opened to door and switched on the light caused him to freeze. Birkin was laying on the ground in a puddle of his own vomit, muddy, soaked to the bone, and shaking like a leaf.

Instantly Wesker was at his partner's side, cursing his decision to leave him alone. The smell of alcohol was so strong from the combination of what was on his breath and what was now covering his front and the floor it almost caused Wesker to recoil.

Birkin was lucky. The stench of regurgitated liquor did a perfect job of completely masking Annette's perfume.

“Oh god, Will...how much did you drink?” gasped Wesker as he pulled him up by his shoulder's out of the mess on the floor. Wesker was trying his hardest not to breathe in the overpowering odor, but that was quite hard to do when he kept nearly gagging himself.

Birkin turned horribly red bleary eyes on him, staring at him as though he feared the most horrible form of retribution to come crashing down on him. “Al...I'm...I'm so sorry,” he gasped, looking as though he was about to cry.

Wesker gave him a strange look. It was true that Wesker was quite pissed about him staying out so dammed late and exceedingly annoyed at the fact he'd let himself get so drunk, and from the looks of it, went tromping through the forest for a few hours, but Wesker had bigger concerns than letting Birkin know how angry he was right now. For one, Wesker was extremely worried about the state his partner was in, and that aside, even if he'd decided to be a bastard and yell at William now, the look of dread on Birkin's face was completely disproportionate to Wesker's rather subdued wrath.

Wesker sighed, the strange look could probably be blamed on his level of intoxication; he quite literally smelled like a bar...and other things Wesker didn't even want to try to picture.

“It's alright, Will,” he muttered in mere annoyance. “Let's just get you cleaned up, okay?”

Birkin stared at him as though he'd gone mad before he suddenly broke down and threw his trembling arms around Wesker, sobbing into him as he fully exposed Wesker to the warm vomit still covering his shirt and the front of his trousers.

“Oh God!” gasped Wesker, trying uselessly to separate himself from the man covering him in the disgusting mess he was wearing.

Unable to dislodge Birkin's wailing form uttering mostly unintelligible apologies, Wesker just fell back on his haunches glaring daggers at his partner.

“Now we _both_ need a shower,” he huffed.

“Al, listen to me,” Birkin breathed though his sobs.

“Now is _really_ not the time,” Wesker growled, beginning to struggle slightly again.

“No, Al! _Listen_!” Birkin cried in absolute distress.

Wesker glared, but relented due to the tone of William's voice, even if he thought this could all be attributed to his level of drunkenness. “Fine...but make it quick. I'm covered in your vomit.”

Birkin looked down. “I...I...”

Wesker sighed, running a hand over William's back. “Out with it, Birthday Boy, or I'm dragging you into the bathroom regardless.”

Oh God, he couldn't tell him. If he told him, he'd lose him. Birkin buried his face into Wesker's chest, mindless of the foul smelling mess and causing Wesker to cringe. The question was, could he survive through the guilt? It didn't matter. He couldn't live without Wesker, and he figured he deserved any and all suffering he felt as a result of his infidelity.

“I...I love you.” he finally whispered.

Wesker's form stiffened beneath him.

“I love you with all my heart, Albert. I...I can't do this without you. Please...please, don't ever leave me.”

Wesker froze completely. He had no bloody clue what to do in response to that. Birkin had never... _ever_ said _anything_ like that in the nine years they been together and Wesker certainly never had either. He wasn't prepared...he had no response.

“Will...” he eventually managed awkwardly. “You're...you're _really,_ _ **really**_ drunk...I-”

“I know I'm drunk, Al!” yelled Birkin, further stunning Wesker into silence, “but that doesn't change the fact that that's how I feel! I...I could just...never say it before...” he looked away. “I love you,” he said again.

It was at this point that he leaned up to press his mouth to Wesker's in what would have been the most disgusting, yet most emotionally deep kiss to date...if Wesker hadn't stopped him that is. “Will, please,” Wesker begged. “I will kiss you to your heart's content in the shower as soon as you brush your teeth.” He sighed. “I'm...I'm not going anywhere, Will. Believe it or not, you are just as important to me as you just stated I am to you. But I am literally begging you. Can we _please_ get into the shower?”

Birkin pressed his head back into Wesker's chest and nodded, arms firmly planted around his partner's shoulders.

Wesker ended up carrying him into the shower.

* * *

Birkin let the warm water rush over him, removing the dirt and grime with the help of Wesker's mostly gentle hands. Birkin _almost_ believed the guilt could be washed away too, but that would never happen. He would carry it with him until the day he died.

Birkin's mind was slowly pulled away from the inner turmoil he was going through by the increasingly intimate touches of Wesker's hands over his no longer physically dirty body. Ironic, because while they were serving as a distracting intervention, at the same time, they were increasing the feelings of guilt pounding through him. He should be hurting right now. Wesker shouldn't be caressing him, he should be punishing him severely for what he'd done; he wanted Wesker to hurt him.

Suddenly Birkin turned around from his position under the stream of warm water and pressed himself to Wesker's chest, one hand tangling into Wesker's wet hair and pulling him down slightly so his mouth could slam onto Wesker's, silently begging him to take away the inner pain he knew he deserved by making it a tangible, physical thing; something that could be healed. Wesker was quite good at making love a rather painful affair, and right now, that was the only way Birkin could bring himself to touch the man he was clinging to so desperately.

Wesker grinned into the kiss, eagerly deepening it by adding his quick tongue and sharp teeth to the mix. He'd been toying with Birkin for the past ten minutes with little to no results to show for his endeavors until now. He'd started to wonder if the alcohol had numbed more than his partner's mind; a strange occurrence indeed. As he pulled Birkin closer, he was happy to be proved wrong.

It only took a few minutes of this heated foreplay for the combination of the shower water and resulting steam to feel unbearably hot on their sweating bodies. Wesker was seriously thinking of vacating the uncomfortably warm room in exchange for their bed, but Birkin had other ideas. He wanted to become Wesker's again as quickly and painfully as possible, both conditions being met by staying in the cramped wet shower.

Wesker felt Birkin's hand pull his own away from the handle on the sliding glass door of the shower before replacing it roughly on his hip, clearly stating his preference.

Wesker growled in annoyance against Birkin's shoulder he had moments ago been accosting with a combination of his teeth, tongue, and lips, but in the end, let him have his way. In Wesker's mind, he'd already taken this birthday privileges thing too far, but what the hell? He didn't recall ever doing it in the shower before, and being a scientist, he was always up for experimentation. Still, that didn't mean he had to act happy about it.

Such thoughts in mind, Wesker pushed Birkin up against the corner where the stone wall the shower head was mounted on met the back one. Birkin's body hit the wall harder than Wesker had meant to due to the younger man's slip on their way almost directly under the pounding stream of hot water. Birkin didn't mind though, not now anyways. All he wanted was some sort of redemption from the atrocities he'd committed tonight. He knew the only true way to escape the mental torture he'd afflicted himself with was to reveal the truth to Wesker who would then somehow forgive him—as if _that_ would ever happen.

Birkin pressed himself closer, spreading his legs slightly and grinding his hips against his partner's, moaning Wesker's name in response to the pain of being shoved roughly up against the wall had caused and the pleasure erupting from his hips at the familiar feeling of Wesker's hard cock against his own.

It was impossible. Wesker would _never_ forgive him, so he'd take whatever token gesture he could get from the situation.

The combination of the hot water pouring from the shower head above them, the thick steamy air, and Wesker's body against his own made it quite difficult to breath but Birkin didn't care. Again he closed the distance between their lips, pressing desperately into Wesker once more.

Wesker gladly reciprocated Birkin's movements, yanking him closer by his steadily moving hips, nails digging into his flesh until they left marks, and moving his tongue deeply into his captive's mouth.

It was true that alcohol tended to make Birkin horny—he knew this for a fact—but this was different. First he'd been a sobbing mess on the floor, during which time he'd told Wesker he'd _loved_ him (the older man still had no idea what to make of that), then totally flaccid while Wesker had cleaned him up, and now he was clinging to Wesker as though this was the first time he'd taken William. It was weird, but the persistent movements of Birkin's hips against his didn't give him much of an opportunity to think about it, and what Birkin did next stopped all of his thoughts immediately in their tracks.

Wesker felt Birkin's body shift against his so that both his hands were firmly on Wesker's shoulders as they were breaking from the kiss to take in frantic breaths of hot damp air. The next thing Wesker knew, their positions were smoothly switched so he was the one leaning up against the hard wall.

Wesker was about to protest rather violently to what he believed was a shift in dominance, but such volition vanished when his partner knelt down in front of him and took the tip of his throbbing manhood into his mouth.

“Ahhaa!” Wesker gasped, unable to stop himself due to the sheer unexpectedness of Birkin's actions.

On his knees before his partner for more reasons than Wesker's pleasure filled mind could possibly comprehend at the moment, but encouraged by the older blond's reaction to the gesture, Birkin slowly advanced Wesker's impressive cock into his mouth, running his tongue along the shaft before flicking it against the slit at the organ's tip.

Wesker clamped his mouth shut and twisted his head to the side, pressing his cheek against the wet stone in an effort to keep from making too much noise in response to Birkin's sudden decision to give him a blow job.

Instinctively, his empty hands found their way into Birkin's wet hair, yanking painfully on the strands as he tried to get a grip on something while, at the same time, hungrily pulling William's head in closer so that the younger blond was forced to deep throat him.

“Hnnn...” Wesker purred in response to the vibrations caused by the small muffled moan Birkin had just made around his engorged member. All the wonderful sensations shooting though his body were turning his legs to absolute mush. Wesker felt himself sliding down the wall but there wasn't much he could do about it aside from grab Birkin's hair harder. It wasn't as though he was accustomed to the simulation Birkin was currently inflicting upon him; blow jobs were not usually included in their typical methods. If this was anybody else—not that it _ever_ would be—Wesker would have fought harder to stay on his feet, but this was Birkin, the one and only person he could show weakness or imperfectness around without any sort of fear.

Allowing Wesker to further abuse his hair, Birkin followed his partner down, until his head was buried between Wesker's thighs, the older man's hips resting on the slippery shower floor.

“Warn me next time,” panted Wesker, as he forced himself to release his hold on Birkin's wet hair. While Wesker may have been able to show weakness in front of Birkin, it didn't mean he liked it. The older blond would much rather finish this heated joining in a way that put him in better control of the situation and his body.

Sensing Wesker's implied desires, Birkin removed his mouth languidly from Wesker's cock, barely holding in a gag when Wesker's hips bucked unexpectedly as Birkin's tongue made contact with one of his more sensitive areas.

Once Wesker was freed from the confines of Birkin's sweltering mouth, he pulled his partner up over him, momentarily giving him the upper position he always seemed to crave. He took the opportunity to further abuse Birkin's neck with his mouth. “So...how's your birthday been...so far...Dearheart? Wesker murmured into his partner's ear, the question interrupted with his delightful sucks on the delicate lobe.

“Terrible...” Birkin whimpered into Wesker's opposing ear, his hands gripping almost painfully onto Albert's sides as he pulled himself impossibly closer.

Wesker paused in his actions, the cease of stimulation causing Birkin to nuzzle his face deeper into Wesker's neck in hopes that he'd start again.

“Why-” Wesker began to question before Birkin's hand moved down his stomach and wrapped around his swollen member.

“I just want _you_ , Al,” he practically begged as his fingers traced slow nigh unbearable circles around Wesker's tip. “Please take me,” he panted into Wesker's neck.

If Wesker had been any less turned on right now, he would have found the pleading urgency and the entire situation in general suspicious, but as he was currently rock hard, he ignored it.

“I...uhnn...I think I can manage that,” Wesker purred through the pleasure shooting though his body.”

He was about to reposition them in order to acquiesce Birkin's request when suddenly the younger man atop him did something even more unexpected than his earlier initiation of the incomplete blow job.

Birkin couldn't take it anymore; couldn't wait any longer. Wesker was teasing him; toying with him. It was a typical tactic from his partner, but Birkin couldn't play along any longer. He felt so...terrible. Images of what he had done with Annette earlier flashing though his mind adding a sick edge to this pleasure. He couldn't bare this any longer. He needed Wesker to take him _now_ ; to make it stop. He was Wesker's, _no one else's_ and he needed to reaffirm this to himself and his unknowing partner.

In his desperation and need to feel this closeness and as much pain as possible in a small atonement for what he'd done, Birkin had pulled back from Wesker so he was straddling the man's hips, gripped his partner's manhood with both hands, and impaled himself harshly without any sort of preparation.

The action caused his scream and Wesker's ecstasy filled moan to echo throughout the shower.

“W-Will!” cried Wesker, barely forcing himself to remain still when every neuron was demanding him to thrust his hips repeatedly and mercilessly into the man above him.

“M-move...” gasped Birkin, his shaking legs preventing him from doing so himself. He stared at Wesker pleadingly, the liquid dripping down his face resulted from a mix of the shower water and the pain that came from forcing Wesker's huge cock up his soft tract. He needed this. He needed this pain. He needed Wesker.

Wesker still made himself hesitate; he was seriously worried Birkin had injured himself or would, and he had no idea how to explain the need for the necessary surgical repairs if the damage was severe enough. What the hell, was Birkin playing at?

Birkin screamed in a mixture of emotional and physical pain. “God dammit, Al! Please! _Fuck Me_!”

Even Wesker couldn't say no to that.

Giving in to the vast quantities of hormones saturating his brain and the no longer resistible urges now in control of his body they produced, without hesitation, Wesker flipped their positions, mindless of how hard Birkin had hit the shower floor, and began fucking the hell out of him.

Each of Birkin's screams only pushed him to thrust harder into the writhing body beneath him, suddenly desperate to attain that wild level of ecstasy that only Birkin could drive him to. At the moment, he could care less about the sweet sounds he was milking from his partner's throat. The scientists here were used to screams.

The beautiful yet agonizing oblivion Wesker was pounding Birkin into was everything he wanted. He didn't care how deeply Wesker's nails were digging into his back and sides as his partner animalistically clawed at him; didn't care that his head was aching from the force of which it had been slammed into the wall; it didn't matter that his knees were stinging as they continually were bashed up against the opposing glass and stone walls making up the cramped area in which they were clinging to one another; and he certainly could care less about the deep stinging pain radiating through his hips. All he felt, breathed, and lived was Wesker; as it should be.

Wesker didn't think he'd held Birkin this close to him or been clung to so tightly since their first time together; he was loving every second of this and was both loathed and ecstatic to feel the pressure building up inside of him rapidly reaching unbearable levels as they raced frantically towards climax; dripping wet bodies slamming feverishly into one another.

The last beautiful screams Wesker would ever hear from Birkin were muffled as Wesker claimed his lips, shuddering as they released into the familiar heat provided by each other's heaving bodies.

* * *

_March 24th_ _, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Wesker was awake long after Birkin had collapsed next to him in their cool bed, finally allowing his exhausted intoxicated body the rest it was begging for. His partner on the other hand, was far from slipping into the gentle oblivion sleep offered. Quite to the contrary, his mind was mulling repeatedly over and over all the oddities of the evening. The whole situation was strange to be sure, but there was one particular area where his mind became repeatedly stuck.

“ _I...I love you. … I love you with all my heart, Albert.”_

Wesker ran a hand over his face. Why had he said that? It'd just been because he was drunk right? Or...had it been something deeper?

Wesker glanced over at his heavily sleeping partner, staring intently at his slack features as if doing so would provide him with an answer.

 _Love_... Such a simple four letter word that Wesker had never even considered using to describe anything in his life. It had been used too much to the point of becoming cliché, but that's not what was bothering Wesker.

The way Birkin had said it, in combination with how long it had taken either of them _to_ say it—not that Wesker had ever truly wanted to—made him think that, despite the ridiculous utilization of that seemingly innocent word and the wide variety of meanings it could hold as such, even in his inebriated state, Birkin meant what he'd said, and had meant it in a deeper emotional way than Wesker ever wanted to really think about.

Regardless of his wants, Wesker was forced to consider it now.

Okay, ignore the stupid word talking up the pages of every crappy paperback romance novel ever created; without putting a cliché label on it, how did he feel about Birkin?

God he was loath to admit it, but he _needed_ William. Birkin was the only person he could trust, rely on, and relate to in his life. Further than that, Wesker was painfully aware that Birkin was the only individual in the company who would ever see him as anything other than than _a_ Wesker; a part of another Umbrella experiment. Birkin was also the only individual aware of what Wesker's true intentions were. Not only that, the usually timid blond was willing to stand by Wesker in his nigh impossible goal; to assist Wesker in whatever way he could to achieve it. Finally, William was his only means of escape from the horrors that saturated his everyday life in this mad facility.

Wesker didn't know what he'd do without him.

Maybe that wasn't the typical definition of the term, but if this undeniable need for the other man would qualify...yes...he could say it...

A few more moments were spent in nearly still silence as Wesker gently stroked Birkin's messy hair from his sleeping face, a slight genuine smile tugging at the corner of his lips. He motions slowed as Birkin almost imperceptibly stirred, his eyes, reddened by tears, lack of sleep, and alcohol, opening ever so slightly. Wesker continued his soft touches until he was sure Birkin was mostly awake before gently pressing his lips to his partner's.

“I suppose I love you too, Dearheart,” he whispered quietly.

Birkin just was able to stare up at him for a few moments before just burring his face in Wesker's neck, letting out what could have been a strangled sob, and wrapping his arms more tightly around the older blond.

Not the reaction Wesker had been expecting, but he knew liquor made Birkin highly emotional, and judging by how closely William was holding him, it was certainly a positive response. As such, Wesker just returned the embrace, comforting his partner by rhythmically stroking his hair and back until they both fell asleep, wrapped in each other's embrace.

In the morning, Birkin wouldn't be sure if this had really happened. For Wesker to have said that...after everything...if felt too much like a dream to be real. No matter, Birkin would always remember this; the bitter sweet emotions swirling around in his chest assuring him that Wesker loved him and that he would never deserve it.

* * *

_March 24th_ _, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Birkin awoke the next morning in absolute agony. His head was pounding like a tribal drum with every beat of his heavy heart, his body felt like lead, as though he was coming down with something in result of his extended time out in the rain, every inch of him was radiating discomfort in response to Wesker's assault on all his body's various areas, and— _FUCK!—_ the slightest movement he made; just a little shift in position caused a red hot jolt of pain to shoot through his lower body, burning deeply within him as though he'd been ripped apart from the inside (an apt comparison considering what had happened last night). The pain was so intense, he couldn't help but whimper, tears stinging at his winced shut eyes.

He welcomed the pain.

Just as clearly as the agony had shot through his pounding mind, so had the clarity of what he'd done yesterday. He deserved this. Every second of it and more.

Biting his lower lip to prevent himself from being too loud, Birkin tried to sit up on the sheets. It was a mistake, and it hurt bad enough to get him to cry, water streaming down his face as he gasped out. Immediately, Birkin ceased all movement, whimpering pitifully as he tried to ride out the waves of hurt.

“...I knew you'd be regretting that little stunt of yours come morning,” commented the warm body lying next to him.

Birkin directed his gaze towards Wesker, feeling both relief and guilt wash over him. “I-I don't...” He hissed again. “...don't regret it in the least...”

Wesker snorted in disbelief and then rolled to face him, careful not to jostle his partner. He would be very relieved to discover later today that, while Birkin was far from undamaged, nothing more drastic than the narcotics Wesker was about to offer him would have to be done to rectify the situation caused by last night's antics.

“Here.” Wesker held out a few pills and a glass of water. “I'll give you a heavier dose once the hangover wears off, don't want you dying of respiratory depression after all that.” He chuckled. “I can't even imagine how awful you feel right now, Dearheart. I hope it was worth it.”

“It wasn't,” he winced as he gratefully accepted Wesker's assistance in getting him up enough to take the medication.

“I thought you said you didn't regret it,” Wesker said skeptically, as he helped his partner take the oxycodone the older blond self proscribed for his frequent headaches and then the entire glass of water.

“I don't,” he coughed, having downed the liquid too quickly.

Wesker rolled his eyes, carefully pulling Birkin back down into the silken sheets and his arms.

They laid like this for a while, both lost in astronomically different thoughts before Wesker reached over to the night stand and pulled out a small, unwrapped rectangular box which he then presented to Birkin.

“What is this?” asked Birkin in confusion.

“Your present,” stated Wesker bluntly. “In all the insanity yesterday, I forgot to give it to you. You'll have to excuse the lateness as it can pretty much be blamed on you.”

Birkin winced. He had enough blame to deal with.

“You...you didn't have to...” William muttered as he took the box.

“I am aware,” was Wesker's only response.

Having no more excuses, Birkin opened the box and was subsequently sunned speechless by the content.

“I...Al it's...I don't know what to say...” stuttered Birkin as he fumbled through the examination of the beautiful gift. He couldn't even comprehend how much the obviously custom watch had cost his partner. “I-I don't deserve this,” he blurted out, immediately regretting doing so.

Wesker fixed him with a quizzical look. “Well that's quite an absurd thing to say...” He cocked his head to the side, but put any questions he may have had on hold. “Deserving or not, it's yours. You have no idea what I went through to get the blasted thing so you better damn well use it...and don't lose it either,” he added, recalling how often Birkin seemed to misplace things.

Birkin just continued to stare between the engraved watch and Wesker.

The older blond's uncovered stormy eyes narrowed. “You don't like it?”

Birkin rapidly shook his head. “No! I...I...” He just embraced his partner at a loss for words. “I love it...th-thank you.”

Wesker relaxed into the hug, gently stroking his partner's back and sides. “Perhaps it will serve you in keeping better track of time than your old one did last night.”

Birkin grimaced and pulled himself closer, wanting nothing more than to ball out endless apologies and beg for forgiveness for the crime Wesker wasn't even aware he'd committed.

The watch gripped tightly in his hand would carelessly and relentlessly count down the remainder of the short time Birkin would be able to hold Wesker like this.

* * *

_April 11th_ _, 1986; Spencer Estate; Guard House:_

All Annette was able to do was stare at the result sheet in her shaking hands, eyes wide with disbelief and horror.

This could not be _real_! After everything... _everything_ that had gone wrong over the last two and a half weeks this...this was impossible!

Her legs lost the ability to support her body and she collapsed back into her chair, hand clasped over her mouth. Never before had she been so grateful for the privacy offered by her own laboratory.

Annette admitted that she'd been worried when her cycle had been a few days late, and after four, simple paranoia had driven her to perform an HCG (Human Chorionic Gonadotropin) blood test on herself.

Never in a million years had she really expected the results to come back positive.

* * *

_April 14th, 1986; Spencer Estate Underground Labs Level B4:_

The last twenty two days had been harder for Birkin than he could have ever predicted. Not only did he have to deal with his own feelings of irrepressible guilt, he had to quell all of Wesker's suspicions revolving around the night of his birthday and the subsequent fall out.

Wesker wasn't oblivious, quite the opposite in fact. He knew _something_ was going on. He just didn't know what and Birkin was having a hell of a time keeping it from him. The only thing that was continuously saving him from having the truth come to light was Wesker's own apparent inability to even entertain the idea of what had actually happened. He could be infinitely jealous of Annette—something Wesker would never admit to—but the older blond would never believe that there was any real warrant to his hatred of the woman. For Birkin to have cheated on him...well, it was unimaginable and, as such, never even crossed Wesker's mind. Although, the look that had covered Wesker's face when he'd seen Annette's signed transfer order sitting on their desk the day following Birkin's twenty-fourth birthday had certainly made William sweat.

The current lie he had Wesker “believing” which “explained” his behavior that night and Annette's sudden transfer and lack of desire to associate with either of them was as follows: After they'd both gotten unimaginatively drunk at the party, Annette had started severely flirting with him; something he had foolishly let continue for a good while (and oh was Wesker pissed about that; pissed, but not _gone_ ). That part was true and explained to Wesker why Birkin felt so guilty and been desperate to make it up to him that night as well as convey to Wesker just how much he cared, but neglected to divulge the entire truth—something that would have ripped them apart.

The lie continued that, once he'd pulled himself to his senses—something he wished with every fiber of his being that he'd done—Birkin had rather abruptly and impolitely turned her down. _That_ certainly wasn't true but offered a plausible explanation of why Annette had so suddenly agreed to the Guard House transfer and was avoiding William like he'd been infected with one of the viruses they worked with.

As horrible as the entire situation was, things were...getting better. Birkin was not for a second under the impression that he could completely wash his hands of what had happened—he'd forever bare the stains of what happened that night as a close, painful secret—but he was starting to honestly believe that he could put most of it behind him, write it off as a terrible mistake, and move on with his life with Wesker.

That is...until Annette showed up outside his lab looking as though she was about to go into hysterics. Then suddenly, everything he was trying to bury was right there on surface again.

The decision on Annette's part to come clean to Birkin had not been an easy one to arrive at. In fact, Annette had struggled for days to come up with how she was going to deal with the terrible twist her life had taken.

The researcher had been so desperate, she'd considered a chemical abortion—it was certainly early enough in the pregnancy—God, she couldn't even call it that yet, she supposed she was still partly in denial about it—but she couldn't do it; couldn't kill the life growing inside her. The shame would destroy her.

She had never pictured herself to be capable of being a good mother, she was too cold; too absorbed in her research to manage that. But to...to kill her own child, someone who was completely innocent and had no hand or control over the circumstances that had created its tiny little life force...it was unimaginable to Annette. Her Catholic upbringing had never really had much influence on her life and the decisions she made, but it certainly had a hold of her in this aspect.

Annette supposed it was a bit of an oxymoron; she could experiment on and basically murder other human beings, but she couldn't pop a handful of pills to eliminate a tiny embryo whose miniscule immature heart had just stared to beat but was yet to even resemble the person it was slowly becoming.

It didn't matter. This child was _**hers**_ , and that made all the difference in the world.

That was why she was standing here before Birkin now. That was why she was going to beg him, on her knees if she had to, to be there for her; to be there for his future child.

Annette had no illusions of being able to do this on her own. Umbrella didn't need a pregnant woman on their pay roll who was unable to perform many of the typical duties and responsibilities her dangerous job required of her. She'd, at best, be deposed of. At worst, they'd turn her into some sick experiment on the effects Tyrant had on pregnancy. However, if Birkin, one of Umbrella's top and most invaluable scientists, supported her, claimed her and the child, she'd have a much higher chance of survival within the vicious company.

Looking at Birkin's wide eyed expression, clearly stating that she was the _last_ person he wanted to see, it was clear that attaining the support that was vital to both her's and the child's survival would be quite an uphill battle. The way he was regarding her made her want to run and retract her decision to involve him in the “family” he'd helped create, but she forced herself to take a deep breath and stand her ground.

Running away wouldn't get her anywhere good.

“Annette...” gasped Birkin. “What...what are you doing here?” he inquired hurriedly, his voiced hushed. He was obviously nervous as hell about her presence, because he quickly shut the door and threw a nervous glance back at Wesker.

Wesker...She shuddered. She couldn't even think of Wesker's involvement in all this...

Fortunately, his partner's full attention was on the rather demanding tests he was performing. The older blond wasn't even the slightest bit aware of what was going on outside their door nor of the implications behind it.

Annette somehow managed to keep her cool, ignoring her conflicting desires to either hit Birkin, or hold tightly to the scientist before her. She was rather loathed to admit still having deep feelings for him despite what he had done to her.

“William, we need to talk.” Annette barely recognized the calm, level voice that had just come out of her mouth. It was miles away from the anxiety she was truly feeling. She briefly wondered if she'd managed to keep the emotions from showing in her features as well.

“I...” Birkin glanced back into his lab, wishing terribly that this was something Wesker could save him from. He lowered his voice further as he became even more acutely aware of the horrible feelings, emotions, and memories he thought he'd finally stared leaving behind. “I can't Annette...I'm sorry, I just-”

He tried to escape back into the laboratory behind him, but Annette caught him by the sleeve of his white coat just in time.

He froze, looking as though he was fighting between the urges to slip quickly out of his lab coat or hit her arm away. She allowed him time to do neither.

“William,” she spoke sternly. “I wouldn't be here if it wasn't...immensely important. I need to talk to you, please...you owe me that much don't you?”

Birkin grimaced and shot one more desperate look back at an unknowing Wesker before he nodded. “Yes...I-I suppose I do...” He shook his head. “But not here.” With that, he led her up to one of the private offices on the facility's third basement level and locked the door.

For a while, they just stared at each other, before William finally broke the deadly silence. “W-well...? What is it...?”

This was it. Her only chance to make this work. Her entire future depended upon this. It should have been much more eloquent but all that came out was, “I'm pregnant.”

Those two little words completely shattered Birkin's world and any illusions he had about spending the rest of his life in Wesker's arms.

* * *

_April 14th, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Birkin had disappeared again... One moment Wesker was in the lab with him working on some meaningless experiment, and the next, his partner was gone on some errand to fetch another set of sealed vials, a chore he'd never returned from. At first Wesker was merely annoyed, then worried, and by the time evening had rolled around with no sign of the sandy haired researcher, he was downright concerned.

If he hadn't been so busy all day or so stubborn, he would have gone to look for his partner much earlier. As it was, around six PM, he been forced to stop—he never had gotten those viral containers he needed—and was now searching for Birkin.

He wasn't in the lab, nor could Wesker reach him on his cell phone. When Wesker had finally gotten around to checking in their room, he was fairly livid at the researcher sitting hunched over on their bed, shaking hands clasped tightly on his lap, head lowered so that his messy locks fell over his features.

“Dammit, Will!” raged Wesker, anger trailing quickly behind the flood of relief he felt at seeing Birkin alive and...unharmed? He certainly didn't look great...but he was here. Wesker had seen too many instances where Umbrella scientists and workers just disappeared. No explanation was ever given, but it was clear what had happened. “Where the hell were you?!” demanded Wesker, walking over to where his partner was. The unspoken words, _'I was worried,'_ hung clearly in the air.

Birkin felt the dread consume him, dread that had been building up within him ever since Annette told him that in less than thirty eight weeks, he would be a father to a child he'd never meant to help create. It was like an icy cold nothingness that was enveloping and destroying every last visages of warmth and happiness inside of him.

He had no hope left. What he said next would end everything.

“Al...I-I need to-to t-talk to you,” he whispered, the utter despair in his words causing Wesker to completely reevaluate the situation. If William was this upset...this _was_ something serious.

Wesker felt a chill begin to creep into his chest. He couldn't imagine what horrible request Umbrella had made now or...what if there was another accident? “What is it?” he questioned blankly, folding his arms, his tone only a little less harsh than before.

Birkin let out another shaky breath, this one so long Wesker was under the impression that Birkin would completely deflate before his eyes. The scientist rose and then moved so he was standing before Wesker. The expression on his face when Birkin had finally gotten up the courage to look Wesker in his shaded eyes was one of absolute hopelessness and defeat. It was as though he was waiting for Wesker to pass judgment on him.

Wesker felt the iciness the seemed to leach from his partner begin to claw more vigorously at him. He wanted to reach out and touch Birkin, perhaps just a supportive hand on his shoulder or maybe even to hold William's trembling body to his, but there was something in the air between them, a palpable separation preventing Wesker from moving.

Birkin didn't know how he managed to do it but he forced his eyes to remain locked with those he could just make out through the dark lenses and then compelled his lips to move.

“I lied to you.”

Once he started talking, no force on earth could stop the dark exorcism of the truth, no matter how badly either of them wanted to.

“The night on my birthday, I got drunk, I forgot myself; forgot everything. I-I screwed up.” His voice cracked. “I don't know what happened or-or why I did it Al...but...” a small sob. “I slept with Annette!”

Ice. Those four words froze him down to the core, turning the entirety of Wesker's form to ice; ice that started to crack.

“I-I'm sorry!” wailed Birkin, tears actively streaming down his face.

“ _I'm here for you...whatever you need...anything at all...just say the word...”_

_Lies..._

“I-I didn't mean...” he shook his head.

“ _Don't you remember what I said? We can't do this alone...I can't do this alone...”_

_**Lies.** _

“And now...now she's pregnant and I...I don't know what to do!” His hands were digging in painfully to where they were clenching into his own arms.

“ _I cannot believe you, Al! To think that I would-with her?! After you, for...for almost nine years! … Al, you're perfect. I'm...I'm uncannily fortunate to have had you for so long; to still have you...after everything… I'd be an absolute moron to pick anybody over you...”_

_** Lies!** _

“I'm sorry,” he sobbed.

“ _I...I love you… I love you with all my heart, Albert.”_

_** LIES!** _

I'm so, so sorry, I never-”

The resounding smack from the blow Wesker had dealt to Birkin's face, sending the smaller man crashing to the floor, resonated throughout the cold room.

William looked up in fear at the dark figure standing over him, an impossible blend of emotions all etched in rage painted across his threatening features. Birkin's hand was glued to the intense pain radiating from the bruise already blooming across his jaw, blood trickling from his split lip and collecting in his mouth from where the inside of his cheek had been sliced open against his own teeth.

It wasn't the fact that Wesker had hit him like this, something the older man had never done, that was causing Birkin to shake, it was the way Wesker was looking down at him. The only emotion burning in those inadequately covered eyes was pure hatred.

“I hope,” Wesker's words were absolute steel, “That you're _happy_ Will.”

Without wasting another second, Wesker stepped over his crumpled body and walked quickly to the door.

“No, Al!” Birkin practically screamed through the tears and the pain. “I'm _sorry_! Please don't-”

The door slammed, forever cutting him off from the only person he would ever really love.

“Leave me...” he whispered to the emptiness around him.

He'd lost Wesker... _forever_.

Birkin allowed himself to crumple to the chilled floor, tears streaming down his face, mixing with the blood as the sensation of being truly alone over powered his entire being.

He wanted to die.

The only reason he didn't—besides the fact that he was too much of a cowered to inject himself with the myriad of viruses in their lab that would have instantly done the trick—was that, without Wesker, trapped in Umbrella's madness, he was sure he wouldn't last much longer.

* * *

_April 14th, 1986; Spencer Estate:_

Wesker ran, blindly and as fast as he could through the twisting hallways of the manor, as if he really believed that if he could move fast enough, he could outrun intense pain building in his chest, threatening to shatter him.

This special type of agony felt familiar somehow, and in the back of his mind he'd known the world shattering devastation of such a deep betrayal before, but he couldn't place it. If he had been thinking clearly instead frantically trying to avoid the pain that was crashing down around him, he would have accurately deduced that this was more severe version of the agony he'd felt when his Brother Alex had left him for dead within the company that was still trying to kill him, but Wesker couldn't think. He didn't want to. All he wanted to do; all he could do was run.

The anger he'd shown when slamming his fist into Birkin's pleading face had only acted as a temporary flimsy shield to the more dreadful emotions that were hounding him, nipping at his heels like vicious dogs from which there was no escape. He knew it was only a matter of time before the shock wore off and the true reality of the situation became painfully clear to him, but still, he pounded through halls and wooden doors; scrambling like a rat in a cage or, more accurately, one of his human test subjects; searching for a nonexistent way out he would never find.

His entire world was crashing down around him, burying him beneath unimaginable amounts of aching truths and lies that he couldn't help but flee from. He felt foolish, stupid, hurt, enraged, devastated, crushed, weak, alone, betrayed, used, and a slew of things he was helpless to put a name to but that were all happily ripping him apart from the inside out, something a thousand times worse than how he felt each Christmas Eve.

He gasped and almost fell to the ground, the thought of having to face those days alone; face the rest of this insane life alone; or having taken comfort from arms that were only too happy to wrap around another and to have foolishly believed that they would hold only him for eternity almost bringing him to his knees.

Nine years. Nine years; basically his entire life; all rendered meaningless in a single night.

Why? Whywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhywhy _why_ _ **why**_ _ **WHY**_ had Birkin done this to him?!

It all made sense if he thought about it; why Birkin had come back to him from that...that _slut_ like that. Sobbing, groveling and pleading with Wesker to hold him.

He felt, sick his hand flying to his mouth but unable to stop the heaving of his stomach from emptying its contents in whatever room he was currently seeking refuge. He'd done it. He'd held Birkin, kissed him, told him that he...he _loved_ him—more bile forcing its way out of his tight throat—after Birkin had done the same exact thing to that _bitch_ ; after he'd left her panting on some mattress in a dark room with the makings of his _child_ inside of her.

Wesker's running had come to a halt and he swayed dangerously into some nameless piece of furniture as his body started to succumb to the unbearable pain in his chest shattering the heart he'd never meant to open.

It wasn't until his ringing ears heard the sound of music and he understood his fingers were deftly, numbly, calling out the melody from the instrument that he'd crashed into that Wesker realized where he was.

Trying not to recall the memories that haunted this, and pretty much every nook and cranny of this mansion, Wesker finished the tragic song and stumbled into long since spore-free passage that was revealed, collapsing to the floor at the base of the statue, and clumsily ripping out the metal emblem that rested in the rock; the same one he'd used to save the life of the man he now couldn't think about without screaming.

As the stone wall closed soundly behind him, locking him safely away from the rest of the world and everyone that could possibly take advantage of his weakness, Wesker let himself break, unable to hold the pieces lodged inside his stinging chest together any longer.

For the first time in his life that he could recount, Wesker felt tears falling down his face and gasping sobs forcing their way out of his lips. Unknown to anyone besides the shaking blond crumpled on the floor, dismantled by the foolish mistake of the only person aside from himself that he'd really trusted, Albert Wesker cried.

He promised himself that this would be the first and the last time he would subject himself to such humiliation.

Tomorrow, he would pick himself up, replace his masks and his sunglasses which he always hid his true emotions behind; tomorrow he would lock what was left of the shattered thing in his chest behind a wall of ice he would allow no one else to melt and he would face the world; Tomorrow he would confront all of Umbrella's atrocities and trials and overcome them without fail, but that was tomorrow.

Tonight, he would allow himself to succumb to his humanity and cry himself into the unforgiving oblivion offered by the exhaustive sleep that would claim him well after midnight and well after the last tear he'd sworn ever to cry had fallen.

* * *

 

_The Second Cycle Meets Its End_

_From the Remains of Devoured Coils, the Serpent Begins Again..._

 


	16. PG13A/W: Cleaning House

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two years have passed since Wesker's life broke for a second time; two years that have been absolute torture for the scientist. Wesker is sick of working in the same lab with Birkin and Annette, he's sick of working with the same virus and the same test subjects, he's just sick of everything.
> 
> The monotony of his everyday life is suddenly broken by a very unexpected call from the man who's behind everything, even his own existence as a Wesker: Ozwell E. Spencer. The man's request of his forgotten experiment is just as shocking. Lord Spencer wants Doctor James Marcus Assassinated.

 

**Project W: Third Cycle**

**PG13A/W: Cleaning House**

_February 19_ _th_ _, 1988; Spencer Mansion, Courtyard:_

It was soothing and it gave him time to think; the repetitive feel as each powerful movement cut through the cold water and the feel of it as the liquid flowed around his precise movements coupled with the cyclic filling of his lungs every third stroke and the holding of breath between them. Even the sounds, muffled and almost tympanic in nature, further increased the feeling that he was isolated; cut off from all the chaos that usually made up his life. Such commodities were rare luxuries within Umbrella and something that Wesker had been taking full advantage of, especially over the past two years.

The large pool in the courtyard had never seen so much use, especially during this season. At first it had been a messy frustrating process, but the fact that he could completely exert himself to the point of collapse without feeling hot or sticky from profuse sweating had kept him in the water instead of running the mountainside trails. Now he was an expert and all his movements precise; he barely had to think about them anymore. This of course meant he could loose himself entirely in his thoughts, thoughts that one way or another would wander back to the reason he was seeking such isolation in the first place.

Since that April night in 1986, Wesker's life had continued to slip further and further from his control. The research in the lab with Birkin had lost all value to him. Before it was tedious, now it was downright unbearable. He hated seeing the same viral strains mapped out on glass slides, hated seeing the same mutative decomposing of their test subjects, and most off all, he hated the biting tension that perforated the air of the lab around the three members that worked within it.

Yes, three. Annette had become a permanent facet in their lab.

In July of 1986, William had married a nearly four months pregnant Annette. The small ceremony took place in the equally tiny, extremely Gothic church attached to the now mostly abandoned—aside from Dr. Marcus and his sparse assistants—Research and Training Facility. Less than a dozen Guard House scientists had been in attendance aside from himself—no, he was still not sure why he'd subjected himself to that particular form of torture. Perhaps it was a botched attempt to prove to himself and to Birkin that he was over it; over him. But he hadn't even been able to take pleasure in the fact that both the newly weds looked miserable the entire time and that Annette had looked simply dreadful in her dress which hadn't even begun to conceal her swelling belly.

It was awful, each passing day a torment within the Arklay Mountain facility haunted by the nagging reality of how much better things had once been and would never be again. It was amazing that he'd be able to put up with it so long. Fortunately a life of hardships had taught Wesker how to cope. He'd just shut down, blocked out as much of his emotions as possible and focused on his mind numbing research.

Wesker wasn't like Birkin. He wasn't fascinated and awestruck by viruses. Sure there were moments of excitement, and he was brilliant enough to keep up. But after almost eleven years, even the most spellbinding of research became nothing more than monotonous.

Research on the T-Virus had entered its final stage: The development of a super weapon. One that had aptly come to be named the Tyrant. In theory, if a human subject could bind with and accommodate T instead of rejecting it and being gruesomely decayed as a result, they could create a B.O.W. beyond anything else they had yet to manufacture. One that would posses not only unprecedented strength, but yet unseen intelligence in an infected subject, something made possible by a special variant of T, code named Tyrant Strain 7, or T-S7 for short.

This variant was created to degrade the host's brain tissue as little as possible allowing the subject to maintain much of its per-exposure intelligence. It also replicated slowly enough inside the body that the infected individual had an opportunity to adapt to the strain and incorporate it within its genetic structure. The truth behind the development of this exceedingly rare, weakened strain would always remain a secret from the company. The report suggested it had been created by accident from the mixing of a defective antivirus with one of their viral samples. The truth was, Wesker had used his own unique antibodies to create it. He hadn't even really told Birkin how he'd done it, though the brilliant scientist could easily hazard a guess.

There was only one very daunting problem with their Tyrant Project: T-S7 would only interact in the desired way with someone of a very specific genetic makeup. All other exposed human subjects would just become zombies. What was worse, this sort of rare individual wasn't even one in a million. It was one in  _ten_ million.

Already pressed to locate subjects without attracting the eyes of the public for the lab's ever increasing demands, finding one that matched their insanely exclusive criteria wasn't even nigh impossible, it was absolutely so. They'd come close, but close didn't cut it. All subjects they'd had any hope for simply became extra's for late night horror flicks featuring the undead. This left the Tyrant Project only a researcher's dream that was light years away from reality.

This dead end did nothing to improve Wesker's grim outlook on life. Things had gotten to the point where Wesker was actually hoping for an outbreak to occur so he could forgo this ridiculous facade he put on day after day.

Unable to make any headway with the yet nonexistent Tyrant, Wesker had thrown himself head first into the only thing that made sense to him anymore: The training that would one day prepare him for the inevitable conflict between himself and Umbrella.

This dangerous vendetta had given him ample battle scars over the years. The more severe injuries he'd obtained had been patched up by Birkin who had long ago given up in trying to convince Wesker to cease this insanity. He didn't exactly have the persuasion over Wesker that he'd used to.

After Wesker had made it clear that forgiveness was not and never would be on the table, necessity forced them pick up the broken pieces and mold them into something close to a professional working relationship. Though it was not near to the extent that it had been in the past, Wesker still trusted Birkin more than anyone else inside Umbrella. Though he was loathed to admit it, he still had to rely on his old partner from time to time. As the years went by one could  _almost_  refer to the way in which they treated each other as "friends," but there was far too much tension and old shattered feelings beneath the surface for that.

Despite their broken relationship, Birkin hadn't gone back on his promise. He'd been setting up Wesker's deadly brawls with their various creations for years, providing the B.O.W.s that tried to rip Wesker apart at every opportunity provided to them, patching the blonde up afterward as necessary, and keeping the entire process under wraps. It wasn't much but it was better than Birkin could have hoped for in light of what had occurred; what he'd done.

Wesker's internal mulling over everything that had gone wrong since March two years ago was brought to a halt; interrupted by the shadow of one of the nameless staff contained within the mansion.

Wesker came to a stop at the wall instead of preforming one of the smooth flip turns that usually punctuated each of his laps until he could no longer bring himself to take another stroke.

"What?" came the curt inquiry, his breath coming out in a white puff in the chilly winter air. He didn't even bother with meaningless gestures like politeness anymore, not that he'd ever given them much credence to begin with.

"Telephone call for you, Dr. Wesker. In the main office," stared the man blankly. Of course he hadn't taken offense to Wesker's attitude. No one in this facility dared to cross either of the two Chief Researchers. They knew what kind of experiments they preformed down in the labs and they were also painfully aware of the fact they they were always short on human test subjects. Birkin had even gone as far as to have the entire staff undergo a full genetic panel to see if any of them were suitable samples for the Tyrant Project. No such "luck."

Wesker glared, uncaring of what affect such a gesture had on the man. What idiot would be stupid enough to bother him with a simple phone call this late in the evening? "And why are you telling me this?" Wesker asked angrily. "Tell whoever it is to call back tomorrow during working hours or take a message." He paused running a hand through his soaked hair. "Better yet, get one of the assistants or even Doctor Birkin to handle it."

The man waited patiently through all of Wesker's barked orders, ensuring that he was done before speaking again. "It's Lord Spencer, Sir."

Wesker froze, all thoughts of how stupid the staff was around here vanishing from his mind; everything replaced by the single name:  _Spencer_... The man was a shadow that haunted his every move and held the key to his very existence as a Wesker. Lord Spencer was a man Wesker had been convinced he'd have to tear all of Umbrella down to get at but here he was, calling his long forgotten project on the phone. Why? It didn't make sense. It was unreal. It was—dammit. He didn't have time to sit here in the water, puzzling over how impossible it all was.

Wesker pulled himself out of the pool and quickly snatched up the folded black towel laying beside the rest of his personal items, quickly whipping it over his already shivering body. Most would consider him daft to be swimming in an outdoor pool in the middle of February, but the pool was kept at seventy eight degrees year round so the only real issue occurred after he got out and the freezing mountain air tried to kill him—as it was now.

"Transfer it to my office." The clipped order was thrown over his shoulder at the somewhat nervous looking man behind him who quickly moved off to obey his request.

Seconds later Wesker was also walking hurriedly towards the mansion, mindless of his current state of attire—black swim trunks and a towel draped around him—and of the wet foot prints and drips left in his wake on the freezing ground.

Soon, Wesker was pushing through the large oak doors adorned with the Spencer Family crest, and into the rather grand looking office. This, room—located on the lower floor of the East Wing, just inside the corridor running from the base of the main east stairwell—originally belonged to the president of the estate. However, after Wesker had extricated himself as much as possible from the labs and Mr. and Mrs. Birkin, the figurehead was all to happy to be "relocated."

Wesker walked across the richly carpeted floor towards the grand writing desk that now housed all of his important files—excluding the most sensitive ones regarding the Tyrant Project. All the while his shielded eyes regarding the phone through which he would soon be speaking to the head of all of Umbrella—yes, while he hadn't taken the time to put his clothing on, he had retrieved his sunglasses from the pool side. He just felt naked without them.

Wesker pushed the large, leather rolling chair back from the desk, preferring to stand during this confrontation—or whatever it would turn out to be—rather than sit. He paused, staring at the tiny flashing green light that signified the on hold call for a few seconds. How did one even greet  _Lord S_ pencer over the phone, or for that matter, in general? "Hello," wasn't going to cut it. Wesker didn't even like phones to begin with. He already hated interacting with people in person. Over the phone, when he couldn't see them or their reactions, and couldn't significantly intimidate them with his glare was ten times worse. Wesker growled in annoyance before quickly picking up the phone and pressing the button that would connect him to Lord Spencer. No point in keeping the old man waiting longer than he already had been. Who knew how patient he was.

"This is Albert Wesker. I was told you needed to speak with me." He winced. Sure he'd had no idea how to start the conversation, but listening to his voice, slightly echoed in the receiver now glued to his ear, it sounded awful. He sounded like some sort of secretary. He'd meant to set himself up as impressive, not a lowly servant at Spencer's beck and call.

He didn't have long to fret about his opening lines in this new game. The man behind  _everything_  was speaking and Wesker found himself transfixed by each word crackling through the receiver whether by awe, shock, hatred, fear, or some combination there of, he wasn't sure.

" _Ah, Doctor Wesker, so good to finally be able to speak to you..._ "

A pause which Wesker did nothing to fill. It felt as if the very air had been charged by electricity and that the slightest wrong move could result in dire repercussions from the unseen, suddenly omnipresent storm.

" _You and Doctor Birkin have made quite a name for yourselves through your research on T._ "

Wesker again wasn't planning any sort of response but the stretching, expectant silence drove him to speak.

"I suppose that is a fact," Wesker commented smoothly.

He wasn't sure if these were just pleasantries or if Lord Spencer's real interest was rooted in their experiments. Perhaps the Tyrant Project? Still, it was best to not attempt to set the avenue of conversation or present any real information until he knew what the man actually wanted.

A dark chuckle that sounded like tiny shards of ice breaking off a glacier sounded over the line. " _There is no need to be modest, Doctor. We at Umbrella are very impressed._ "

Wesker gritted his teeth. He could do without the patronizing. "Forgive me, Sir. I didn't think someone as important as yourself had called to complement me over past experiments."

If Spencer had been looking for an impressionable dog happy to do jump through his hoops, he certainly didn't find one. Not that Wesker thought that's what he was looking for. You didn't spend that kind of time, money, and effort on pets. You spent it on...well he wasn't exactly sure what. He was hoping this conversation would answer that and many other questions, and the sooner they dispensed with the pleasantries and got to the heart of matters, the better.

" _No, I suppose I didn't._ "

Wesker couldn't tell if he was put off or pleased.

" _To get right to the point...Are you privy to the nature of Doctor Marcus's research?_ "

"To an extent."

Why Dr. Marcus of all things? The man hadn't made any pertinent breakthroughs since the discovery of the T-Virus. At least, none he was aware of. Had that old coot come up with something he'd neglected to share with Umbrella; with Lord Spencer? The way Spencer had asked, it was seeming a likely possibility. Why else would he be calling here asking Wesker? Otherwise he just would have asked Marcus had he not suspected the man of dishonesty.

" _Define, 'to an extent.'_ "

We occasionally assist him with the testing of the B.O.W.s he manufactures." Wesker informed him. "The Eliminators, Lurkers, and Plague Crawlers were all tested in our facility." He paused, unsure if he should be divulging this next piece of information.

About a week ago Dr. Marcus had called them with some unsettling information. Someone had apparently been breaking into his laboratory—or so he claimed. He'd "asked" Birkin and Wesker to, "sniff out the rat." As if they didn't have better things to do than chase a paranoid man's delusions. The "investigation" was still "ongoing."

As Wesker expected, they hadn't found anything out of the ordinary—not that they'd been trying particularly hard. He'd assumed the whole thing was nothing more than his paranoia running wild, but now...coupled with this strange call from Lord Spencer, he wasn't so sure.

If he was correct, Spencer would already know of this development, and even if he wasn't Albert didn't have any sort of loyalty towards Marcus. In fact, he viewed the old man with the utmost contempt.

"Does this have to do with the break-ins occurring within Doctor Marcus's private labs?" Wesker asked conversationally, shifting to a more comfortable position.

A long silence stretched, but this time Wesker felt no pressure obligating him to fill it.

" _Through certain...investigations, it has been deemed that Doctor Marcus has forgotten his place within the company and to whom his loyalties lie._ "

So it was Spencer who ordered...someone to break into the old man's private labs. Things weren't looking so good for Dr. Marcus. If Spencer was involved, perhaps Umbrella had finally had enough of the man's paranoia and was going to get rid of him regardless of his status as one of the company's three founders. Wesker certainly wouldn't put it past them. The question was: Why would Lord Spencer involve him?

Luckily, Umbrella's master wasn't going to keep him guessing on that matter much longer. " _James has outlived his usefulness. I want you and Doctor Birkin to put an end to him and then take over his research._ "

Wesker blinked, extremely taken aback by such a request—no order. It wasn't that killing the man was particularly bothersome to Wesker, quite the opposite in fact. What was causing him pause was that he had no idea why such a thing would be asked of him and Birkin. Why on earth would Lord Spencer want them to pull the trigger? He undoubtedly had endless quantities of agents designed for such tasks. The Umbrella Security Service had been created with this exact purpose in mind. Was he trying to assess their loyalty to the company as well? Perhaps he thought they too had followed their mentor in his decent from sanity. If that was the case, it needed to be rectified immediately.

Wesker cleared his throat. "I would be all to happy to get rid of him for you, but...you must understand that this falls well outside our usual job description. Why Doctor Birkin and myself?"

He could practically hear the annoyed frown tugging at the man's lips at having to explain his reasoning to someone so obviously beneath him. " _I would think the reason should be easily apparent._ "

A significant pause followed by a tension filled sigh.

" _He trusts you and Doctor Birkin more than anyone else at this point. He'll let you into the lab without any resistance. I want this to be a quiet assassination rather than a formal elimination._ " His voice went from bothered to carrying an edge of sadistic glee" _Doctor Marcus will have an 'accident' on February twenty first. Following which, you and Doctor Birkin will pick up whatever pieces he leaves behind and submit a full report of all your findings directly to me. Is that clear?_ "

Never before had such a simple questioned carried a countenance so threatening.

"Of course, Sir," Wesker agreed humbly. It would not do to push any more of the man's buttons this evening. "It will be done as you've said."

" _Good._ " The  _Lord_ was pleased. " _I'll be sending a small unit of commandos immediately to assist you. They should arrive early on the twenty first."_

Commandos? What happened to subtlety? The only accident Wesker could fathom Dr. Marcus falling prey to in their presence was misfire. Not to mention, while it was true that Marcus would let both himself and Birkin into his labs within the nigh abandoned Research and Training facility, that would no longer be close to accurate should they be tailed by fully armed and battle suited Umbrella soldiers.

Wesker gritted his teeth, trying to think of a way to explain this to his superior without becoming a victim to his seemingly short temper. "I thought you wanted it quiet. I assure you that, while appreciated, the assistance is unnecessary."

It was as though he could feel the man's glare even though its owner was most likely thousands of miles away if not more.

" _I also want to be assured it gets done._ " he clipped." _You and Birkin are scientists, not assassins. Just get the men into the facility and his labs without a fuss and they will take care of the rest. Your primary concern is his research._ "

Wesker felt that, not only was this entire thing absurd and ill thought out, but that the chastising nature of his scolding was unnecessary and meant for someone eighteen years his junior. He wisely did not state either of these things. It would be difficult and highly annoying, but he could get the gunmen into position without being caught by the paranoid old man. He was a genius after all.

"As you wish, Sir," was his only response.

" _Very good. You will contact my assistant at the following number when your assignment is complete._ " The order was followed quickly with a number Wesker was hard pressed to find a pen to record in time. " _Good day, Doctor Wesker._ "

It was the last he would hear from Umbrella's master in a long, long time.

* * *

 _February 19_ _th_ _, 1988; Spencer Mansion:_

Several hours later found Wesker outside Birkin's room—a door that was no longer across from his as Birkin had moved to the second floor of the mansion into Annette's living quarters after the wedding. He was trying to figure out how to broach the subject with him without involving Annette. The less people who knew the better; that and he just hated interacting with the woman in general. He wasn't even how William was going to take adding assassination to the already daunting list of atrocities they'd committed in the name of Umbrella over the years. Probably not well. Than again, Birkin liked Marcus about as much as he did: Not at all.

Wesker let out a tired sigh before deciding to just get this necessity over with—though not before he considered just leaving Birkin out of the loop and dealing with the problem on his own.

His knock got no answer even though it was well past the six o'clock hour. William and Annette were supposed to be out of the lab at five, but today was nothing different, and the hours the two scientists kept were just as insane and unpredictable as ever. He really should have checked the lab first.

Just to make sure that they just hadn't heard him—unlikely—Wesker knocked on the door again in a harder more annoyed fashion. He got no answer from Birkin, but someone had certainly heard him. Suddenly the room was filled with the grating sounds of a small child wailing.

Wesker gritted his teeth. God how he hated that sound. For one, it was simply earsplitting, not to mention, incessant. For another the reasons behind the tears angered to him to no end. It was cruel in ways he didn't want to fathom, treating a child as such. In his mind, it had been a crime to deliver her into this monster in the first place, but that was in the unalterable past. He supposed he understood that neither William nor Annette could shirk their duties as scientist—Marcus was a prime example of what would happen should such an event occur. However, their was no reason for Annette to be locked down in the basement at such an ungodly hour. William was the genius, she was just a glorified assistant. More importantly, she was a mother; a mother who'd practically abandoned her child into the hands of the mansion's non-research oriented staff. Staff that were too cold-hearted to provide even a fraction of the affection a young child required. The help also didn't babysit past the agreed upon time—something Annette and William seemed to forget or just not care to return before. This resulted in long hours that the child was left alone, most of which were taken up with incessant, unconsoled crying that could be heard throughout the living quarters on both the first and second stories in the mansion.

It was even worse because this child was the manifestation of why he and Birkin were no longer together and yet it was treated as a mere inconvenience. As if it and everything that had happened on that stormy March night as well as the nine preceding years could be amounted to one big mistake. Nothing more.

Wesker prepared to quickly leave behind the child's pitiful pleas to an uncaring world, entertaining thoughts of finding Birkin in the lab. He paused as the crying began dying down from earsplitting screaming to pitiful whimpers, not because she was being comforted or because she was any less distraught, but because Birkin's daughter was learning at a very early age the truth he himself had been forced to accept years ago: No one cared.

That revelation was somehow worse than the wailing had been and Wesker found himself once again opening the door and stepping into his old friend's room with the ridiculous purpose of comforting the child who, in this environment, probably wouldn't even live long enough to attend school. Even if she did, Wesker very much doubted Umbrella would allow it. She, like everyone else in this facility knew too much. She could never leave. She would probably continue to be a mere nuisance until Umbrella deemed it necessary to get rid of her; like he was about to get rid of his old mentor.

The epitome of cruelty. He wasn't even sure that his presence was a blessing; more of a false hope than anything else.

Wesker sighed as he saw Sherry Birkin's bright blue eyes, reddened by tears of neglect, light up as he entered her prison—an adequate comparison as she'd rarely been taken outside this room.

Sometimes he wasn't even sure he knew himself. How could a man who could completely shut himself down to the point of being able to experiment in the most inhumane of ways on his helpless test subjects; a man who could even pull some kind of sick enjoyment from the whole process; how could a man like that be compelled so often to a sobbing child's side as though he still possessed an ounce of the humanity Umbrella had bled out of him over the years. He didn't have any left. How could he? Yet hear he was, unzipping the top of the once more, screaming child's play pen she was trapped in day after day, picking up the reason his own life had been torn asunder, and accepting the little trembling arms that had been reaching for him as they wrapped around his neck as she continued to blubber.

What kind of twisted creature was he anymore?

Wesker certainly had no idea, but he supposed it didn't really matter at this point. He was what he was. It didn't really matter that this seemed to be the hundredth time he'd been in here doing a job that wasn't even close to his; a job he didn't even really know how to properly do.

Maybe it was out of some misplaced attempt to heal a part of himself that was akin to the still whimpering, towheaded girl clinging to whom she still refereed to as, "Uncle Whisker" (something he was far from pleased about and that had caused him to put her right back in her pen the first time she'd "insulted" him in such a way). As unacceptably weak as the comparison made him out to be, he supposed it made sense in a twisted sort of way. Not that he'd ever admit it out loud. As far as he was concerned Birkin and Annette could go on believing that he was just in here to, "shut her up." He'd convinced himself a while ago the the amount of discomfort his visits to their forgotten child—extreme fear in Annette and guilt in Birkin—was well worth any sacrifice on his part that had to be made for little Sherry Birkin.

Besides, if the child got no social interactions aside from the idiot staff who could really care less, she'd turn into one of those uneducated cave people manufactured up in Canada that they experimented on. If she was going to be an inconvenience in his life, it made sense that she shoud at least partially be worth his time. Finally, and this little facet was perhaps the most ironic in Wesker's mind, the things this little fool did when given the proper stimulation and a feeling of security were usually more fascinating then anything his experiments did down in the lab.

A developing, learning child was far more interesting and could accomplish much more than the monstrosities he and Birkin spent all their life creating.

It was more than ironic, it was the greatest insult to Umbrella and everything it stood for that Wesker could fathom. The hubris that man could create life more magnificent than what was already in existence proved so undeniably wrong; all they'd created was death and destruction. Perhaps that's why Umbrella hated life so much.

Sherry certainly didn't care. Right now the snot covered, drooling brat was attempting to play with Wesker's favorite pair of sunglasses, something she only knew how to accomplish by placing them in her mouth.

* * *

 _February 19_ _th_ _, 1988; Spencer Mansion:_

It was past nine by the time Birkin and Annette showed up at their own door, time that Wesker had spent doing a plethora of activities with the little girl he'd finally just coxed into sleep; activities he wouldn't even admit to doing under pain of death. Considering how Sherry had just lost the ability to be anything close to entertaining, if you ignored the late hour and how much time he'd wasted with their ignored child, he supposed it could be said that they had good timing.

Birkin's conversation with his wife about the possibility of cloning a perfect subject for the Tyrant Program—something that was yet an unattainable method of coping with the issue—was cut short when the pair saw the black clad figure standing over Sherry's crib and the sleeping child within. Wesker looked anything but pleased.

"You sure took your sweet time, Will." Old habits died hard. So too did his accustomed nickname for his old partner.

Annette turned a very pale color and averted her gaze, looking very much as though she wished she were anywhere else right now. Wesker was a part of Birkin's past that she still didn't know how to deal with. Sometimes she thought Birkin still had feelings for him—no, she  _knew_  he did. In her mind Wesker was the one reason this twisted mess had replaced her fairytale and why William could never really love her. No matter how much she threw herself into his research or devoted her entire life to helping him in every conceivable way she could think of, the primary emotion Birkin would feel towards her and their family was guilt, and it was all Wesker's doing.

Birkin showed shock similar his wife's when he saw Albert standing there. Usually he only saw the blond down in the labs or when he helped Wesker secretly destroy B.O.W.s in the Guard House testing rooms. Though it was true that Wesker had occasionally started turning up in his and Annette's room over the past year or so. At first Birkin had foolishly thought it was out of a hope that Wesker would catch him alone; that maybe Wesker was finally going to let everything that had passed between them in the past two years go.

As if that would  _ever_  happen.

No, instead, Wesker seemed to have some strange affinity towards his daughter. Birkin couldn't imagine what Wesker saw in her. Sure she had her moments, but mostly she made messes in various degrees of disgusting. She couldn't even walk on her own, her language skills were archaic at best, and she cried  _all_  the time. Of course, this was all normal for a child of her age, and if it wasn't for the fact that he felt a surge of guilt every time he looked at her, Birkin would have probably found her somewhat cute. But that's because she was his daughter; why Wesker would be interested in the least he hadn't the slightest idea.

"Al...um, what are you doing here?" Birkin really has no other idea of what to say. This whole thing, especially with Annette standing next to him, refusing to look at anything but the floor, was extremely awkward.

Wesker glowered slightly but refrained from raising his voice so as to not wake the girl he'd just spent the last forty minutes putting to sleep—such things were hardly his forte. "You and I have new orders." He wanted to make sure Annette knew she was not involved. "I came here looking for you since it was almost seven, then It," he jerked a thumb back towards the crib, "started crying. You know I can't stand the wailing and with the sitters gone and you two still involved downstairs, I had little choice."

He had lots of choices. Being a facility director, he could have ordered someone back in here to look after Sherry. However, his glower kept both William and Annette from pointing this out to him.

"New orders?" questioned Birkin at length, deciding to side step the matter of Sherry.

Wesker nodded. "Indeed, straight from the top." Birkin had no idea how literal his friend was being. "We'll talk in my office."

Wesker then proceeded towards the door and Annette quickly moved out of his way. Perplexed, but admittedly curious, Birkin followed at a respectable distance, leaving his wife in a room that was no longer her private sanctuary. Like everything else in her life, the being called Wesker had invaded it. Not only that, he'd dared to touch the one thing she'd thought was truly hers. In her mind, that was the only reason Wesker even looked at Sherry: To make her miserable.

* * *

 _February 19_ _th_ _, 1988; Spencer Mansion:_

The two researchers walked the halls between the living quarters and Wesker's office in silence; a silence Birkin was too nervous to break and one Wesker found preferable over any conversation they might have been having. It wasn't until they had arrived at their destination and had a thick door between them and the rest of the mansion that Wesker deigned to speak.

"Spencer called," he said nonchalantly from a reclined position in the large, comfortable, leather chair behind the huge oak desk taking up the majority of the room.

Birkin, who'd been standing awkwardly before him like some scolded child, could only manage to stare at him in shock. It took him a while to process what Wesker had actually said, and when he finally came to grips with the fact that the very head of Umbrella had called and apparently given them new orders, all that came out was a surprised, "what?!"

Wesker smirked slightly. "I was rather astounded myself."

"I-is it about the Tyrant Project?" he stammered, "Or what about..." William shuddered. "Does he know about the way we've been eliminating our B.O.W.s?" If Lord Spencer did know about Wesker's training, he could be in significant danger. It was highly unlikely that anyone in Umbrella could guess why Wesker was doing it. If anyone had deciphered the real motives behind their actions, they'd both have been killed already for treason, probably along side his wife and daughter. Birkin felt his breath hitch in his throat but quickly pushed the unpleasant thought aside. No, what was much more likely is that they would see Wesker's talents and perhaps move him to another department, maybe even the U.S.S..

Birkin didn't have high hopes for the long term survival of any field agent working for Umbrella. Not only that, despite their complicated relationship, he was horrified at the idea of being left alone within this facility without Wesker and the protection he offered. Despite everything they'd been through, Birkin was sure Wesker wouldn't leave him to die if things went to hell—he was still iffy if his family, especially Annette would be included in that rescue. That already sketchy guarantee vanished if Wesker was transferred.

Wesker shook his head and Birkin felt both relieved and yet uneasy as he still didn't know the reason for the strange call.

"It really has little to do with us." Wesker sighed. "Well, aside from the fact he want's us to be involved in the cleaning up of his current mess in the Research and Training Facility."

 _Birkin_  rubbed at his temples, trying to stop the rush of ideas of what this "mess" could be. The last thing they needed was for Dr. Marcus to have caused an outbreak or maybe- "Al, stop bating me and just tell me what he wants." Wesker's little games were not near as amusing for the two of them as they'd used to be.

Wesker glared slightly. "Fine. He wants us to kill Doctor James Marcus."

Shock seemed to be the predominating mood this evening _._  " _What_? I-" Birkin shook his head. " _Lord Spencer_  wants us to  _kill_ Marcus?"

Wesker seemed unamused by Birkin's utter disbelief. "Surely you must have seen it coming. The man is more of a liability to the company than anything else and his delusional paranoia makes him impossible to work with. I'm surprised the order for his elimination wasn't given sooner."

"Well yes, I-I know," stammered William. "But us? Why would he ask us to do it? We aren't assassins!"

Wesker smirked wickedly. "Perhaps not assassins but I'm sure you are aware of all the hundreds if not thousands of individuals we've killed in Umbrella's name." He paused, fixing Birkin with a particularly disturbing stare. "I dare say you even started before I did."

Birkin winced. His first murder of the boy Stephen Wesker was something he would never forget but certainly not something he needed Wesker reminding him of.

"And more importantly, Lord Spencer has no idea what Marcus has been working on. The fewer people who know about the nature of his research and the method of his removal, the better. Since we were with him during his discovery of Tyrant and are most the familiar with...whatever he does these days, it only makes sense that he would choose us," concluded Wesker.

Birkin didn't look satisfied. "Maybe. I don't suppose you've considered the possibility that he'll call for our elimination following this...assassination."

Wesker sighed, looking truly exhausted for the barest of seconds before his mask was once again in place. "Will," he laughed dryly, "I've been considering the likeliness of that impending order for years, but I doubt that this is the moment Umbrella would decide we're no longer worth keeping around."

He rubbed at his prickling temples. "No one, aside from the soon to be deceased Doctor Marcus, knows Tyrant more intimately. Lord Spencer informed me that we would be taking over all of Marcus's research once we'd composed a full report on our findings."

Wesker's shielded eyes met Birkin's. "He'll probably name one or both of us head of Project: T after this."

Despite his rather unorthodox methods, brutal honesty, and their current rather strained relationship, Wesker was still the only thing in his life, besides, rather ironically, his deadly research, that could make him feel safe. On top of that, his old partner seemed to have an almost sixth sense for impending danger. If Wesker didn't think Umbrella was trying to kill them yet—more than usual anyway—he could believe him.

Still... "So how does Lord Spencer expect us to do this? Release B.O.W.s in his lab, inject him with Progenitor, or just go in there guns blazing? I've never even used a gun before, Al."

Wesker raised an eyebrow. "I'm not even going to get into how unwise your lack of firearm experience is considering our situation."

Birkin shrugged rather guiltily. "I guess I always assumed you'd be there so I wouldn't need to know." The words just came out before Birkin could hope to call them back, Wesker's deep glare making him regret saying them even more—especially since they were true.

"Don't..."

Birkin felt ice run up his spine. He knew they could never be what they'd used to be but he'd always assumed Wesker would protect him if things came down to it.

"...put your life in others hands, that's a sure way to lose it. People have a way of letting you down."

Birkin felt his despair subsiding despite the intentional jab Wesker had aimed towards him. Wesker hadn't said anything that would lead Birkin to believe that he'd just abandon him. Maybe it was stupid to go on believing that Wesker gave a damn about him anymore—he rarely if ever showed it—but Birkin had to go on believing in something. The alternative was much less appealing.

"So..." Birkin ventured hesitantly of the desk instead of the still glaring blond before him, "how are we going to kill him?"

Wesker finally relented in his piercing glower. "Lord Spencer is sending a few Umbrella Commandos to do the actual killing. We're just there to get them into his lab unnoticed and then to clean up any mess they leave behind."

Birkin felt as if a rug had been ripped from under him. This whole time he'd be believing they were about to become assassins...turns out they were just there to supervise.

"Al, you could have-" Birkin sighed, letting his annoyance dissipate. Arguing never got them anywhere these days. "Still, it won't be easy, getting Umbrella soldiers past Marcus."

Wesker leaned back in his office chair. "Agreed, but it isn't as if we have much of a choice in the matter." A slight smirk danced over his lips. "I'm sure we'll think of something. I don't know about you but the elimination of that particular thorn in our sides sounds quite appealing to me."

"Not to mention that predicted promotion," added Birkin feeling much better than he had when he'd walked into Wesker's office.

* * *

 _February 21_ _st_ _, 1988; Spencer Mansion, Heliport:_

It was early and it was cold. The combination of the biting wind chill and the crisp dawn air, yet unwarmed by the newly risen sun caused Wesker to wish that he'd warn more than a sweater and his lab coat to this occasion. Or better yet, that he and Birkin didn't have to wait outside for the chopper containing Spencer's soon to be arriving assassins. Such sullen musings and desires for the mansion's heated interior were short lived on Wesker's part. The distant sounds of the aircraft's blades could now be heard slicing through the misty mountain air.

Barely a minute later the dark shape of the helicopter appeared on the gray horizon, looking like some strange flying beetle, not unlike something they might create down in their labs, its black armor reflecting the new suns rays. A few more moments and the two scientists were being roughly buffeted by the wind as the large machine sporting a large pair of Umbrella logos landed before them.

The first thing Wesker noticed was how empty it was. He'd been sourly expecting a whole unit that he and Birkin would have to sneak into the Research and Training Facility, but aside from the fully armed and suited up pilot, only one man was seated inside. This they could work with.

The Umbrella Commando who wasn't piloting the chopper hopped down from his not quite landed method of transport and moved to stand before them. He looked ready for an all out war zone. The man was covered in padded riot gear and packing several different types of knives, a plethora of additional clips, as well as a very large sidearm, and a heavy assault rifle. Spencer's little private army was certainly nothing to be laughed at.

"Doctors Wesker and Birkin I assume?" His voice had a deep gruffness to it that was actually quiet nature. That, in combination with his full cloth face mask, made it difficult to make out exactly what he was saying over the pounding of the overhead blades.

Wesker nodded. "And you must be the Commandos Lord Spencer sent?!" Wesker confirmed, voice raised so as to be heard above the racket.

The man nodded and beckoned them towards the open sliding doors leading into the aircraft's main compartment. It was the shortest introduction they'd had in a while, but that suited Wesker just fine. Better to be Spartan and get the job done quickly than waste time with useless formalities.

Ducking his head, Wesker followed their silent "friend" into the helicopter, Birkin tailing closely behind.

Once the nameless solider had slammed the heavy doors shut, locking out a good bit of the wind and excessive noise, he spoke again. "You get us in to Doctor Marcus's lab Use whatever means you have too but try to do it quietly. Once we're in just stand back and let us do our job." His directions were unemotional; all business. Wesker had to assume that this was a typical day for the man.

Wesker briefly wondered how much this man knew about Lord Spencer, but quickly dismissed the thought. Despite the almost burning need Wesker had to know the reason's behind the company's actions and his very creation as a Wesker, Albert knew there was a time and place for everything. Sitting alone in helicopter with two of Lord Spencer's personal assassins each sporting a deadly arsenal of weapons was not the appropriate occasion. So instead of demanding the answers to his questions that had never been so close, and at the same time, so far away, Wesker merely inclined his head in affirmation. "Understood. We have a plan to get you both inside."

"You'll be posing as the culprits who have been recently breaking into his lab," explained Birkin. "We are going to present you as if you are prisoners we're turning over for him to do with as he pleases." Birkin smirked almost gleefully at the ingeniousness of it all. "The man's unheard of paranoia regarding his research, especially towards possible spies, has led him to request a personal interrogation of the culprits. Conveniently all his 'toys' are in his labs so he'll let the four of us walk right through the doors without batting an eye."

Turning the man's delusions against him. It seemed like poetic justice.

"Of course, we'll have to remove your weapons and make it at least look like you've been cuffed." Wesker couldn't see the man's face but he could tell he was far from pleased about his last statement.

"Oh, we'll give them back to you, right before you go in," clarified Birkin quickly, "Wouldn't have you go up against the old man with just your fists...not that it looks like that would be a problem," Birkin laughed nervously.

After a long pause their less then happy companion finally agreed to the plan Wesker and Birkin had hatched a few nights ago. "Fine," he huffed. "The weapons can go, but the gear stays. I can't have our faces picked up on any security cameras. If our identity is compromised so is our position with Lord Spencer."

"I think we can make that work," said Birkin with an awkward smile.

Wesker felt the glare even if he didn't see it.

"Good, because it wasn't up for negotiation."

The rest of the trip was spent in what most would consider an awkward silence—awkward if either Wesker or Birkin had wanted to have a conversation with the foreboding Umbrella Commandos and silent if one disregarded the constant whirring roar of the helicopter as it rushed over the snow and mist coated forest below.

It was a strange company of men assembled. Not one of them—not even Birkin—balked at the idea of murdering another human being in cold blood, even if it  _was_  Dr. James Marcus. In fact, Wesker felt a thrill of excitement and anticipation shoot through him as they landed at the Research and Training Facility. He wasn't exactly sure what that said about him as a person—nothing good and nothing he didn't already know. Umbrella was in the habit of manufacturing monsters. He, and the individuals getting out onto landing pad, were no exceptions.

* * *

 _February 21_ _st_ _, 1988; Research and Training Facility:_

Both Wesker and Birkin wished they could have seen the look on their old mentor's face when they showed up at the security station, two very intimidating Umbrella soldiers cuffed and held at gun point. It was probably the most interesting security feed anyone at the facility, Marcus included, had seen in a while. Dr. Marcus certainly sounded surprised over the office phone as he inquired as to the meaning of this very concerning visit, so much so that his usual disproving tone could barely be heard.

It was strangely a relief to hear his voice. The guards had been giving them one hell of a time with their cargo and the manner of its transportation. Today's interaction was making delivering live B.O.W.s look like a cake walk. However, Marcus was the absolute ruling authority over this facility. If he cleared them, they were set. If he didn't...well, Wesker didn't want to think about it.

"Ah, Doctor. So good to hear your voice. We caught the scum that's been snooping around your lab. I suppose we could have just dealt with them ourselves but I figured you wanted a more...personal touch in this manner."

" _You did?!_ " All of the suspicion and shock melted out of his voice, replaced with a sick glee he only saved for very "special" experiments.

Wesker heard the camera angled towards them focus in closer.

" _And just what branch are they from_?" A pause. " _They don't look like U.S.S. or U.B.C.S..._ "

"Not sure." Wesker cast a weary eye at the men he was leveling the borrowed assault rifle towards towards. He wasn't quite sure what would happen should Marcus discover that these commandos worked directly under Lord Spencer. Perhaps it would make him that much more eager to see them. On the other hand, it might send his paranoia skyrocketing. It was true that Marcus "trusted" his proteges, but that word was a bit tricky when in came to the man who'd discovered Tyrant. "Whatever unit they're on, I'm not too impressed." Wesker gave the agent before him a rough shove with the barrel of the rifle. He was both amused and cautioned by the way he instinctually shifted his body to retaliate. "They didn't put up much of a fight."

Wesker left it at that. Who knew where too much provocation of the unnamed soldier would get him.

Marcus's laugh was hard and full of dark humor. " _Ah well, you know this company. New groups with increasingly absurd acronyms pop up nigh daily_."

Wesker smiled falsely. "I assume that you're anxious to meet your new guinea pigs. Shall Doctor Birkin and bring them down?" He only asked because he knew what the answer would be.

" _Yes, yes of course_ ," he replied in a strange mixture of excitement and annoyance. " _J_ _ust bring them down to the main laboratory. I'll be a few minutes...have to finish up this experiment_."

The line went dead and moments later Marcus gave the remote order for a green light. Security let them through without further incident. Honestly the plan could not have gone smoother. Wesker didn't foresee any other issues. From here, it would be a clear path to the doctor's fast approaching death.

It was strange, walking through these nigh blindingly white halls again. They looked so familiar; almost unchanged since he and Birkin had last been contained within this twisting maze. They however...were miles from who'd they'd once been. The previously naive scientists, fascinated by the wonders of an experimental virus had become hardened murderers who had no illusions about the purpose of the Tyrant Virus and anything else created by Umbrella or working for Umbrella: To kill. A task that had become so meaningless, it was akin to a mundane chore.

Wesker glanced at Birkin who was trailing slightly behind and to his left. He didn't have to ask to know that he wasn't the only one affected by the past saturating this place. Memories, especially those concerning both of Umbrella's finest scientists hung heavily about them, fresh and unburied, unlike those at Spencer's Mansion where two years worth of new ones had covered the past like a sort of unhealthy scab. It was infuriating both in that he was reminded that he wasn't the perfect unfeeling specimen he'd swore to turn himself into that could completely lock out all the emotions that, in his mind, made him weak and vulnerable and, that it reminded him of why the past was so unattainable; why he was like this in the first place. It made him that much more eager to get out of this facility in which time had decided to stop and yet cruelly march forward simultaneously.

Wesker picked up the pace, moving the group quickly towards the lower levels and the mystery that was Dr. Marcus's lab. The past, no matter how clearly it was hung before them, could never be resurrected nor revisited. That's why it was the past; never to be escaped but always dead. Forcing everything else aside, Wesker placed himself completely back into present and focused on the mission at hand, concentrating only on ensuring that, in the next few minutes, Dr. Marcus became just as dead as those wasted years he would never get back.

Once they'd reached the outer lab doors, Wesker gave a curt nod to the man he'd been trying to ignore and Birkin, after returning the gesture, input the code Lord Spencer's agents had provided them with on the flight over. Wesker felt both relieved and impressed as the thick doors slid silently open. He had almost been sure that, with how many times Marcus changed every password he had control over out of a severe case of overcautiousness, that they would be forced to wait until the Doctor allowed them access, thus losing them most of the element of surprise.

Once Birkin had confirmed that Marcus was still in the back room where he housed his most secretive experiments, the other three hurriedly entered the giant test tube littered lab, doors sliding shut behind them. Wesker recognized most the occupants as variations of the dead end B.O.W.s he and Birkin had been forced to test several years ago. This, in combination with the lack of anything resembling Marcus's favored slimy black subjects confirmed that this area was just for show. Whatever Dr. Marcus was really working on and whatever Spencer hoped they might find would be located in the back with their target.

Wesker did a quick glance around the room to ensure that Dr. Marcus's conviction that any and all security cameras could be hacked and used against him was still working in their favor. Noting the frayed wires and damaged plaster where the customary security devices had been forcefully and carelessly removed, Wesker set about hurriedly uncuffing the Umbrella Commandos, Birkin quickly following his lead. Once the pair were free Wesker and Birkin handed over the guns they'd been using to keep the agents hostage—well, the one Wesker had been using to keep his charge hostage and the gun Birkin had been carelessly pointing in front of him regardless of where his "captured" agent had been standing.

After a quick check of the only weapons aside from Wesker's large side arm they'd been able to reasonably get past the guards, the commandos shouldered their guns and nodded to Wesker and Birkin.

Wesker stepped forwards to input the final code into the last thing separating them from their objective. As he entered the seemingly meaningless string of numbers, he was stuck again by how ridiculously easy this was. No hesitation. No remorse. And he'd probably sleep soundly tonight. It wasn't at all like the first time he'd extinguished a life. He almost invisibly winced. Perhaps it was silly or another one of those damn weaknesses that plagued humanity, but he still remembered every meaningless detail; every sight; every scream; even the smell—copper and rotted flesh.

* * *

 _November 5_ _th_ _, 1978; Spencer Mansion, Underground Labs, Level B4:_

It had been almost two weeks since the human lab rats had been delivered to the Spencer Mansion and the scientists at the lab had run into a very halting problem. Unlike with the rats and the rabbits they'd originally tested Tyrant on, the virus didn't seem to take to the more complex organisms known as humans. The results weren't anything close to what Progenitor did to its subjects that weren't compatible. So far, Tyrant seemed to weak to have the same effects on humans as it did to smaller mammals. In fact most individuals exposed hadn't even shown systems.

It was a very disheartening discovery, one that had sent them back to the drawing board, attempting to make the virus stronger, more compatible, or some combination there of. That is until, one of the humans Marcus had injected spiked a severe fever, developed the horrific blistering, skin melting rash, began frothing at the mouth, and seized herself to death; a death that only lasted twelve hours before she came back as the first recorded, Zombie. Yes, that was their official name for them. It seemed a bit too...well obvious and unscientific to Wesker, but it was certainly accurate.

Once dozens of tests had been run on the newly crated abomination, it was decided that another of the uneducated humans from the breeding farm should be placed in with the monster. It was also determined that this task would fall to Wesker. He wasn't happy about this for multiple reasons, one of which being that he hated going down to what could only be described as the holding pens and interacting with these cavemen-like creatures. It also meant that he'd have to be the one to kill this individual; something he'd never done before nor had really taken into consideration yet. Right now he was too focused on the inconvenience of it all.

Faces without import behind them usually vanished from Wesker mind, as did the the meaningless names of the non-important. So it stood to reason that after this brief encounter with an uneducated, nameless, meaningless test subject, that Wesker would never give the man a second thought. Such would not be the case. Years for now he would be able to look back and see this man, every detail, clearly behind his eyelids as if it had been etched there.

He would remember the bright green eyes, lined with dark shadows of sleeplessness and poor nutrition, wild with animalistic, fearful, trepidation and yet shining with barely reined in curiosity at anything and everything they took in. Like someone seeing the world for the first time, an event which simultaneously traumatized and fascinated down to the creature's core. Wesker would recall the gaunt face framed with long, messy, black hair and the pale, nigh white skin that seemed untouched by the sun or any sort of labor that covered it as well as the skinny but far from emaciated form. He would forever see in perfect clarity how the man had stumbled forward blindly towards him when the guard had released him from his cell and shoved him unceremoniously towards his waiting reaper.

At the time the encounter meant nothing. Just a brief walk from those horrid holding cells underneath the small grounds keeper's shack back to his labs, but in the future he would remember every damned step; how his victim at first shied away from and then stared up in awe at the, for him, blinding dappled light filtering through the almost barren tree branches still clinging to their last orange and red leaves as though they were trophies. The subject even shivered like he enjoyed it. Like the chilly fall air biting through his thin white scrubs was a wondrous occurrence. At the time it only annoyed Wesker but in the future, it would eat at him to no end.

Once they'd arrived in the lab's third levels and the required per-experimentation physical began, the man's strange fascination with the world and everything around him, including Wesker, continued. While at first it was clear that the man had been terrified of Wesker, he seemed to now be associating him with some sort of ill conceived idea of freedom from his cell and a better world that existed outside of it.

Wesker sighed at the thing's naivety as it stared around the unbearably white room, obviously dying to explore but having sense enough to look back to him as though asking for permission, permission Wesker wasn't even close to giving.

"Sit," he instructed the idiot curtly, gesturing towards the examination table in front of them.

The subject just blinked back at him and made some nonsensical noise in the back of it's throat.

Wesker glared. Of course the uneducated monkey didn't understand him. Instead of wasting more words, Wesker took him by the arm and, none too gently, turned him around and forced him to sit on the table.

The subject pulled his arm back in alarm, giving Wesker a wary eye as he nursed a non-existent injury.

"Stay," Wesker instructed firmly holding out a hand in the universal wait symbol as he moved to gather the necessary equipment. Honestly it was probably the strength of his glare every time the subject shifted to get up that was the most effective restraint in place.

Once Wesker had gathered everything he'd need for this quick exam, all while never turning his back to his subject, Wesker returned and attempted to start the preparatory physical. It was harder than it sounded, the uncooperative test subject kept grabbing everything Wesker tried to place on him and, come to think about it, anything in reach; from the blood pressure cuff to Wesker's security badge, nothing was safe from the subject's grabby fingers.

Wesker was considering grabbing restraints and wondering why they didn't have some already installed—the facility wasn't quite prepared to deal with human subjects and neither were its scientists. However, after clumsily pulling Wesker's ID badge off his coat, the subject seemed mostly content to just stare at it, allowing Wesker to do his job.

"Ah...ah," the fully grown man intoned as if he were a small child, pointing at the badge picture and looking up at Wesker expectantly. At first Wesker tried to ignore him as he was taking the subject's pulse but the man was nothing if not persistent, at one point reaching out as if to touch Wesker's face following a rash of intense pointing at the picture.

Gritting his teeth in annoyance, Wesker batted the hand away. "Yes, yes. That's me, Albert Wesker."

He was quiet long enough for Wesker to finish getting his pulse rate.

"Wes...ker..." he eventually muttered, staring down at the small photo.

Wesker halted in his actions of writing down his result on the sheet and stared at him. Well that was certainly unexpected. He would have thought these inbred animals were incapable of learning or speaking for that matter.

Feeling the stare the man looked up and put on a ridiculous grin. "Wesker," he repeated happily.

"Well I'll be damned," Wesker muttered.

The subject just laughed and fumbled with the fastening device, attempting to secure it onto his own shirt.

The subject remained curious and fascinatingly annoying—though arguably less so than when Wesker had assumed he was nothing more than a drooling husk—throughout the physical and Wesker found himself more intrigued by the minute. He'd heard about the studies on feral children and had assumed that this would be a similar case. Though he supposed Umbrella didn't leave their breeding stock completely alone. They were surrounded with equally uneducated specimens. Perhaps these people had their own language and culture.

This specimen certainly seemed to understand the basics, and while this was all alien to him, he was picking up on simple commands quite well. Things went a lot smoother once Wesker dropped the, "you're a useless test subject who isn't worth the scum on the bottom of my shoe, not to mention the fact that I loath you and this entire situation," attitude and started actually trying to work with him. He was able to direct the subject that seemed to want nothing more than to please him (and touch everything he laid eyes on) to stand still on the scale, hold his arm out for the blood pressure cuff and not squirm too much during the tightening of it, and even, with careful coxing, not to struggle during the blood draw. He was actually fairly likable—for a clueless caveman who'd only ever seen the inside of a dark cage underneath Canada.

This all seemed good and wonderful until Wesker got to the end of the medical sheet and remembered why he'd brought this strange creature up here in the first place: To be eaten alive and them hopefully turned into one of those awful, decaying, cannibalistic monsters.

Wesker honestly felt as though the floor had dropped out from under him. He tried to calm himself, to rationalize that this should be easy after all the things he'd done and that regardless, it was necessary. This nameless subject didn't even mean anything to him. They were here to study the virus, not the development of culture in an isolated group of humans. There was no room for error in a company willing to create such a circumstance in the first place, not to mention all the other things they'd done in the name of progress. If he didn't feed this nothing to the feted monster in the basement, it would be him they'd be testing on. It's not like they'd had any qualms doing it before.

Wesker felt ridiculously foolish for it, but despite the truth of everything that had just flashed through his mind he felt sick and he couldn't rationalize it away. This wasn't like the lab animals, this wasn't even like Lisa. Lisa was too far beyond help to even consider salvageable and the rats, bunnies, dogs, and monkeys were just dumb animals. This was a human, a human who'd demonstrated an understanding of the world in ways Wesker knew a simple lab rat could never.

Wesker cursed himself for being so flagrantly stupid to ever let himself see this awkwardly grinning man rocking back and forth on the table as anything but another mindless, soulless guinea pig.

This wasn't going to be easy. This might actually be the hardest thing he'd ever done. But he was going to do it anyway. He was going to murder this innocent man in cold blood because his life and Birkin's life were more important than those of a million faultless test subjects.

Wesker wasn't even naive enough to shift the blame onto the company and proclaim a forced hand. This blood would be on him. It had to be. If he didn't come to terms with that; didn't become an individual who could kill without hesitation if it benefited him or his goals he wouldn't live much longer.

These thoughts in mind, Wesker steeled himself for the task at ahead. "Let's go," he instructed, his tone emotionless as he beckoned the man to him.

He subject stopped picking at the highly meaningless bandage on his arm where Wesker had inserted the needle for the lab draw, and came bounding happily to Wesker's side.

"This way." He pointed to the door and began leading the trusting subject by means of a firm grip on his arm. Together they walked out of the exam room and towards the elevator that would carry them down to the fourth level and the blood stained containment room separating their first successfully created Zombie from the rest of the facility.

His charge still stared around at their surroundings with those same wonder filled, bright, green eyes as they walked down pure white halls. Once they were in the elevator, Wesker reached out to press the button labeled B4, but was halted when the subject predicted his actions and pressed his rather long nailed finger into the proper button for his guide. Something else fascinating about his first victim: He remembered Wesker's earlier actions in the elevator on their trip to level B3 and was able to make to connection between the device moving and the pressing of one of the buttons. Wesker shook his head. Or he was still just trying to please his soon to be murderer; the strange grin he was directing towards Wesker certainly supported that theory. Either way it didn't matter. The less he thought about how human this individual was the easier this cruel task would be.

Sensing how drastically the mood in his guardian had changed, the subject again proved how human he was and how heinous a crime it would be to end his life in such a horrific manner. The subject reached back and gently pulled on the sleeve of Wesker's lab coat. "Wesker...?"

If there was a tone or a look that more clearly communicated concern and the phrase, "are you alright?" Wesker had yet to come across it.

Wesker instantly regretted looking into those worried green eyes. They made him feel that much more awful and disgusting inside. "I..." Wesker shook his head forcing what was probably the most false smile he'd ever worn in his life onto his face. He couldn't bare to tell this man to his face that it would be alright, not when he was about to be eaten alive, so he just nodded his head and continued to use that fake smile.

The subject did not seem convinced but he no longer prodded Wesker about it in his strange ways, though he did keep a hand lightly clenched around the fabric of his sleeve.

He was like a child...Wesker mentally cursed himself. That image, on top of everything else he was dealing with, was the last thing he needed. But like most unwanted thoughts, once they had entered the conscious, they were almost impossible to get out or ignore. This one was no different. After worming its way into his brain, it happily began festering along with all the other guilt radiating thoughts soaking his mind.

Seconds later they'd reached the fourth basement level and were stepping out into the familiar surroundings of Wesker's lab, and the last place he wanted to be right now. Marcus and Birkin were already waiting outside the containment room, both emanating various forms of impatience.

"Finally," sighed Marcus. "Hurry up and put it in there. We need to see how the B.O.W. reacts."

"It" flinched back form the strangers, pressing closer to Wesker in an attempt to find safety and comfort from these obviously hostile individuals. The irony in the fact that the subject was seeking comfort from him was momentarily lost on Wesker who was instead filled up with a sudden and pressing urge to get the subject off of him. How on earth would that look to Dr. Marcus?

A little roughly, Wesker pulled his hand free, startling the subject into moving a bit farther from who he still tentatively viewed as his safe zone, unsure of what he'd done to deserve this rebuking but sure Wesker was still a better choice then these strangers, especially the gray haired older one who was eying him like he was a piece of meat.

Wesker nodded mutely to his partner and mentor before once again grabbing the subject by his arm and leading him towards the iron door at the back of the lab, a door that was synonymous with death.

"Wesker?" the subject questioned timidly, fear beginning to etch his words.

Wesker didn't look at him, didn't respond aside from the visible wince he hadn't be able to prevent from crossing his features. He just continued marching him across the lab.

"Wesker?" The question was more desperately placed and the subject had begun to weakly struggle which only resulted in Wesker tightening the grip on his arm.

They were at the ominous door and the subject was really scared now, his no longer weak struggling doing nothing against the steel, now painful hold on him. "Wesker...please...no hurt!" he pleaded desperately.

Wesker froze, his hand on the heavy deadbolt, unable to stop himself from looking into the man's eyes and absorbing every bit of fear, hurt, and betrayal reflected in them, all of it placed there by him.

"I'm sorry," Wesker muttered so softly Marcus and Birkin who had already relocated to the observation room couldn't possibly hear if they were standing a few feet away. "I can't...no, I won't help you."

It was obvious the man didn't understand the words, but the meaning behind them must have been clear because Wesker saw the fear increase exponentially in his wild expression right before Wesker opened the door and shoved him inside, bolting it behind him.

"Wesker?!" The panic was unmistakable. "Please...Wesker no hurt...Wesker no hurt...please!"

He hadn't even seen the monster yet.

Wesker had to take several long moments before he was able to join the others in the observation room. Marcus looked almost gleeful with anticipation. Birkin looked like he was about to be sick. Wesker desperately hoped that his face was a complete blank that would not falter. As he watched the terrified subject scrabble at the door, fearful tears running down his face, all the while calling for man responsible for his impending doom, Wesker realized that that was a tall order indeed.

It was like Marcus sensed this; sensed everything racing through Wesker's mind. Wesker certainly wouldn't put it past him. Wicked sneer on his lips he spoke, "Whenever you're ready, Doctor," he informed his rather pale charge, gesturing down to the button that would raise the wall separating their first Zombie from its first victim.

Sadistic didn't even begin to describe Dr. Marcus and his intentions.

Wesker took one last look at the subject who had now collapsed against the door and was fearfully taking in his blindingly white surrounding with watering eyes, still muttering Wesker''s name like a mantra or worse, a prayer. Then he slammed his hand down on the button.

The wall rose slowly, the noise and the now audible whimpering drawing the attention of the undead creature on the other side. The thing didn't even wait until the wall had completely risen, instead dropping to its hands and knees with a sickening popping sound and then, pulling itself on bloody fingers underneath the rising wall.

The subject let out a horrified shriek and retreated into a corner where he remained frozen and shaking, like a terrified rabbit staring into the face of its demise.

God he was still crying Wesker's name.

His lack of the ability to run as the Zombie pulled itself across the floor—seeming to have lost the functionality of it's rotten knees—made the outcome all too easy to predict. Once the B.O.W. had clawed its way to the shaking subject, it grabbed hold of his leg, meeting only meaningless resistance before it sunk its teeth deeply into the subject's calf, ripping out a huge portion of his flesh and exposing the peroneal artery which began squirting vast quantities of blood over the floor and the creature still clinging like a rabid dog to screaming subject's leg. Within seconds the panicking subject had fallen to the floor and the B.O.W. was on top of him biting gigantic mouthfuls of skin, muscle, and tendons where ever it could get a hold. Before it was over, its dilapidated nails had found the man's stomach and begun ripping out huge handfuls of his intentions all while the man was alive and wailing for the man who had done this to him and was watching every agony laced second without lifting a finger to stop it.

Nearly ten minutes latter, once the subject had finally stopped twitching and the only sound was of the creature feasting grotesquely on the subject's warm corpse, Wesker had been forced to swallow down his own guilt laced bile several times.

He never wanted to hear his name again.

* * *

 _February 21_ _st_ _, 1988; Research and Training Facility, Doctor James Marcus's Private Labs:_

This was different. This time Wesker didn't hesitate as he opened the door. The shocked gasp and horrified expression painting Dr. Marcus's face as the two commandos stepped into the doorway and riddled his body with rounds didn't even cause him to flinch.

Once the bullets had finished shredding through the doctor, Marcus fell to the tiled floor, his grip slipping on the table where he had been experimenting on one of his favorite pets for the last time. Their mentor lay, gasping on the floor, choking on his own blood as he tried to filled torn lungs while Wesker and Birkin strode effortlessly into the room, Wesker's face a calm mask, a nervous smile tugging at the corner of Birkin's lips.

Marcus couldn't make words escape his lips as he stared in horror at the two people he'd trusted most in this world; the only people he'd trusted, looking down at his pain wracked form like he was nothing more more than an experiment; like they enjoyed watching the life bleed out of him. It was sickening.

Wesker leaned down over him, mild amusement playing over his features. "Well, time to die, Doctor," Albert informed him smoothly, as if he was telling his about some meaningless change in the day's schedule.

"I will be taking over your research," mocked Birkin who followed up his twisted words of betrayal with a harsh barking laugh

Nothing. He meant nothing to them. Perhaps less than nothing. They wanted him to die. It pleased them...his proteges... How could this have...how could he be...dying...?

It hurt.

It was getting darker. Harder...to think...but...it still hurt...

"W...Wesker...Bir...kin..."

His final dying words filled the two men leering down at him not with guilt, not with a single ounce of remorse, but with a dark, sweet satisfaction. After all he and Umbrella had trained them well. This wasn't their first murder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Doctor Marcus is finally dead and that means we only have one more major plot point to go through before Wesker requests his transfer to the Information Department and we really get into the action of the Third Cycle: The experiments with the NE-Alpha Parasite and the subsequent discovery of the G-Virus. I'm not known for my ability to estimate chapter ends, but I'm fairly certain that Wesker will be getting out of the research business in the next chapter.
> 
> I'm really pleased how the section regarding Wesker's strange relationship with Sherry came out. I wanted to set him up as an important part of her life but without making him seem too sentimental/out of character, which I'm pretty sure I accomplished. 
> 
> I'm also very happy about the comparison between his first murder and the murder of his mentor so many years later. I felt it was important to stress that Wesker was not born with the ability to effortlessly kill people at the drop of a hat; that such an ability was developed over time out of necessity. 
> 
> In parting, I hope you've enjoyed things up until this point. Thank you for reading,
> 
> -Asiera


	17. PG14A/W: Nemesis

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wesker receives a mysterious letter for the European Headquarters offering him a possible solution to their Tyrant problem. Wesker and Birkin accept the offer, unaware that this experiment might produce more than anyone in Umbrella could have ever imagined.
> 
> As Wesker's time with the Research Department comes to a close, a new more powerful virus is created that may be deadlier than anyone can hope to control.

 

 

**Project W: Third Cycle**

**PG14A/W: Nemesis**

_July 8th_   _, 1988; Spencer Mansion, Underground Lab, B4:_

Wesker held the double helix shaped viral container up to the light. He couldn't help but find it ironic how the deadly blue liquid actually managed to look alluring as the harsh florescent light danced through the deadly serum containing T-S7. As far as he was concerned this "miracle stain" he'd concocted from his own DNA was nothing different from the regular Tyrant Virus. Sure, it  _theoretically_  could turn a very specific host into a superhuman Tyrant, but at the rate they were going, that seemed about as likely as Lord Spencer coming by the facility so Wesker could shoot the pretentious bastard in the face.

After their adventures within the now completely vacated Research and Training Facility, Spencer had called and informed the pair that Birkin—just Birkin—would be named the new head of the T Project. This was probably for several reasons. One being that Wesker hadn't exactly treated the "lord" accordingly when they'd communicated for the first time—something Wesker still didn't regret. He be damned if he was going to kiss anyone's ass. He hadn't sucked up to Marcus and he wasn't planning on doing anything of the sort to Spencer despite his title of lord or the fact that he ran Umbrella.

Another reason why Spencer had probably excluded Wesker from the promotion was that it had been he who had given the less than stellar report to Lord Spencer. It was certainly not his fault that Dr. Marcus's secret research had been nothing more than further meaningless experiments on his leeches and their apparent ability to develop a hive mind. The information he'd presented to Lord Spencer was hardly riveting, nothing worth being called a breakthrough, and very disappointing to the head of Umbrella who had been expecting gold from the man who'd discovered both Progenitor and Tyrant.

The surprising part? Wesker didn't really even care. He wanted out. The fact that he was excluded from the title of the Head of the T Project meant his escape from this lab was still tangible.

Though he couldn't deny that the method in which Spencer had informed them of this latest development was highly annoying. Like he was hanging it over Wesker's head as though it was an unattainable prize and that this exclusion was Wesker's punishment for disappointing the man who had all the power.

Wesker glanced over at the new head of the T Project. During Lord Spencer's briefing, Birkin had actually been about to protest Wesker's treatment. William was lucky he stuttered and that Wesker was quick enough to figure out what he was doing and had prevented further action on his part. Birkin couldn't afford to offend Umbrella's creator, not in his position.

Wesker still found it strange how Birkin had tried to defend him, how Birkin still clung to him in any way that he could. They both knew very well that what they'd once had could never be resurrected no matter how much each of them may or may not have wished it to be otherwise. Sometimes it made him wonder... Wesker violently shook his head. He was not doing that again. Ever.

As if he'd felt Wesker's stare, Birkin looked up from results chart he'd been pouring over at his old partner and offered a weak smile.

Wesker just sighed and replaced the vial of T-S7. "This isn't going to be any more likely to solve our problem," he huffed.

Recently, Birkin had decided they were approaching the Tyrant from the wrong angle. Instead of trying uselessly to find their one in ten million subject that could successfully bind with the T-S7 variant, Birkin wanted to manipulate the virus until it became compatible with the test subjects they actually possessed. A decent idea, except such an outcome was just as unlikely since they weren't sure how to manipulate the strain so it would still  _supposedly_  provide the desired effect  _and_  bind to whatever genetic make up Birkin would attempt to adapt it to.

That was dealing with too many variables, and in Wesker's mind, made it less likely to happen. They needed a successful binding before they could start playing around with the virus. If Lisa hadn't already become a wast dump for every nasty thing they'd created over the years, Wesker would have suggested using her as a starting point, but her genetic code was so altered by now that any results they might glean would be utterly useless.

Birkin mimicked Wesker's earlier sigh. "You're probably right, but what else are we supposed to do?" he argued. "Unless the right test subject suddenly appears, we're at a dead end." Birkin looked back at his papers and began shuffling through them. "I figure working at it from both ends at once increases our chances and gives us something to do." He smiled at Wesker, obviously believing his logic was sound.

It was, aside from one tiny detail. "I didn't survive eleven years inside Umbrella to do busy work, Will."

Annette, who as usual, was working along side the two scientists in the lab and in the past would always wisely stay out of their conversations, suddenly chose this moment to uncharacteristically intervene. "It's  _not_  busy work, Doctor Wesker," she insisted, an easily detectable, angry edge to her voice. "These scientific miracles don't happen overnight. William is doing everything he can prove to Lord Spencer that he made the right choice in appointing him to head of the T-Virus Project." She was fully glaring now, slender arms tightly folded across her chest. "From what I've seen, it's no wonder Lord Spencer chose my husband over you."

Alright, that last part was completely unnecessary and probably extremely stupid of her to say but she hadn't been able to help herself. Wesker was the one thing that stood between her and a happy life with William and her daughter;  _Her_ daughter that she'd come home early from the lab yesterday to spend the evening with only to find her missing. Wesker had actually  _removed_  Sherry from their room and taken her around the mansion grounds.

How dare he have...Oh how she had wanted to scream at him; to prevent him from ever coming near her little girl again. But she hadn't. She'd kept her mouth shut like always. Birkin hadn't exactly been supportive and Wesker still scared the hell out of her. She hadn't even complained when Sherry had started to cry because, " _Uncle_  Whiskers," had left. She'd been so upset that she hadn't even been able to draw amusement from the ridiculous nickname her daughter had given the horrible man.

This outburst today...she'd just snapped. It was too much. The tall blond in his dark clothes and even darker sunglasses was ruining her life and then he had the gall to just stand there and mock the monumental research they were doing by calling it  _busy work_? Didn't he know that if they failed to impress Umbrella would just dispose of them like they'd done to Doctor Marcus? Didn't Wesker know that he'd drag Birkin down with him because her husband stilled loved Wesker more than his own family? Didn't he know she was fighting every damn day from dawn until well past dusk to protect what little she had left? How could he just act like it was nothing? That everything she would die to protect; everything he had that she would give everything to posses was so meaningless?

Oh she knew why. It was because he was a monster and he enjoyed it.

The entire room had fallen still in response to Annette's very unexpected outburst. Wesker and Annette exchanging the most vicious of glares while Birkin prayed to God that Albert wasn't about to murder his wife.

The deadly silence was finally broken by Wesker's harsh wicked laughter. Several long moments later, he'd finally finished berating the girl with his dark mirth that was perhaps worse than any sort of yelling he could have been assaulting her with, because it meant he thought she wasn't even worth that sort of effort. "As if you have  _any_  right to voice your opinion in this room," Wesker began coldly, hints of his malevolent laughter still in his voice as he started advancing slowly towards her. "Ignoring the fact that your opinion is completely unfounded in any sort of logic and only based on your support of your husband because you are nothing short of a glorified lab assistant, let's examine the  _real_  reason you're even standing her in the first place."

Each of his steps felt like a death sentence and a desperate look to Birkin told her that, while he looked highly distraught, she wasn't going to be able to rely on him for any sort of protection. That was nothing new.

Her distress only seemed to encourage Wesker. "The short and sweet version," he spat cruelly, "is that dear old Will," he jerked a finger at his old partner who actually yelped, "couldn't keep it in is pants."

Both of the Birkins winced at that comment.

"Now while I can't exactly blame you for his ineptitude, you must understand that I  _severely_  loath you."

He just kept coming to the point that her back was pressed up against the edge of a lab table.

"Before you waltzed in, things here were...livable. Now it's to the point where I have to kill B.O.W.s everyday just to get rid of the constant stress and remain sane in this madness."

He was right in front of her now, looming in far too closely. She had to lean backwards over the table to avoid touching him.

"So for your sake," he shot out a hand so it was clutching her chin, firmly but surprisingly not painfully...at least not yet.

"Albert!" Birkin had finally found his voice but that didn't seem to matter to much to the man holding his wife hostage.

Annette let out a small shocked whimper at the touch and tried to turn her frightened face away but Wesker forced her to look up at him.

"I'd try not to give me another reason to add you to the test subject roster," he finished menacingly, his voice never raising above a whisper.

"Albert stop!" Birkin cried again, this time doing the unthinkable. He actually grabbed Wesker's arm and pulled it and him away from his wife who was on the verge of tears.

Annette collapsed to the floor looking up in shock and fear at the two men standing above her. Her husband's actions were beyond her comprehension right now. Never in a million years did she think he'd defend her from Wesker. He certainly never had before.

Birkin and Wesker just stared at each other in shock for a few beats, both equally surprised at William's actions. This was actually the first time any sort physical contact had occurred between the two since their very traumatic breakup. Wesker hadn't so much as shaken his hand since it happened. The surprised pause didn't last forever. With the look Wesker was giving him, Birkin honestly thought he was going to hit him again. Like he had that night two years ago. When the blow didn't come, Birkin took the opportunity to begin rapidly speaking.

"Al, i-it's my...fault. Annette," he chanced a glace down at his terrified wife, "Annette didn't know. So...so if you're angry, which y-you have every right to be, b-blame me..." He took a deep shaking breath. "I-I'm so sorry, Albert." Then very quickly before Albert could retaliate, "I know that doesn't change anything or even close to make up for it, but I am."

Wesker's eyes were mere slits behind his sunglasses. There was a long pause in which no one was sure if this confrontation would take another turn for the worst, then Wesker growled and pulled his arm free. "You know were to find me if you need me," he spat over his shoulder in a way that said, you'd better  _not_ , as he stalked lividly towards the door.

Annette flinched as it was slammed shut. She was still reeling from everything that had happened and she felt the tears she'd desperately be holding back begin to fall down her face. Suddenly Birkin knelt beside her and she felt his arms wrap firmly around her. It was so unexpected, to have Birkin hold her like this, to her him come to her rescue...her crying actually halted for a few beats before restarting in earnest.

"I'm so sorry," he whispered quietly into her hair. "You deserved so much better than this."

As she let herself fall into him, she realized that maybe she didn't have to fight so hard. Just maybe, she had more than she'd thought.

* * *

 _July 8th_   _, 1988; Spencer Mansion:_

Wesker mentally cursed all the way to his office, the white coattails of his lab coat billowing out behind him as he stalked though the manner's halls. Where as before he'd been annoyed and amused by Annette's ridiculous outburst, and had merely wanted to put the uppity bitch in her place—and perhaps gain some pleasure out of it along the way—now he was pissed, livid in fact. All of his rage directed at William Eric Birkin.

_We don't talk about it._

That had been the unspoken agreement the constant necessity to their ability to have a working relationship. After that night, the one Wesker looked back on and cringed at his lack of control and shameful indulgence in pathetic weakness, neither of them had so much as mentioned it; they just pretended the intimacy of the past nine years hadn't happened and moved on with their lives as though they'd never been more than coworkers—maybe shaky friends.

Then suddenly, out of the blue they both decided that today was a fantastic day to commit that taboo?

It was true, Wesker had started it. But off color, hurtful insults were one thing—Birkin must know he deserved at least that much—stuttered emotion wreaked apologies were an entirely different story. What were they going to do now? Have the long overdue heartfelt conversation about what really happened that night? Talk about how much they regretted what happened and missed one another? Cry and wish for a brighter future.  Forgive  each other?

Hell no!

Wesker would be damned if he was cast into such a ridiculous, pointless, sob story of a soap opera. He didn't forgive. He was Albert Wesker. And why should he? It wasn't his damn fault to begin with! No. He was done. Done with Birkin. Done with emotions. Done with this whole damn place!

While none of those statements may have been entirely true, it still made him feel better to think them. At the very least they had prevented him from smashing his office to bits—a plus since he had it just the way he wanted it. So instead of throwing his favorite giant, leather, rolling, office chair across the room, Wesker collapsed into it with a heavy sigh.

He wished there was an experiment to just take away all these stupid, irrelevant, sentimental emotions permanently. He and the rest of the human race would be better off without them.

It was at this point, while Wesker was broodily swiveling his chair back and forth with his foot, that he noticed the rather fat letter sitting on his desk. The thing looked ready to burst at the seams. It was also sporting the official Umbrella seal that only came down from one of the companies major headquarters.

Curious, Wesker leaned forwards and picked up the heavy envelope. According to the postage it had come all the way from France. The Parisian Headquarters? What could they possibly want with him? Wesker would have considered the situation strange if the very head of Umbrella hadn't turned him into his personal errand boy a few months back. What could be more insane than that?

Suspiciously, Wesker took a letter opener to the strange envelope and gingerly dumped the contents on his desk. It looked like someone had stuffed an entire report into the small thing. Something called... _Nemesis_?

Wesker focused his attention on the small mostly blank white paper that had been placed in front of the report in the envelope. It was handwritten in such neat script he'd at first though it was an extremely intricate typing font. There was something...haunting familiar about the hand writing. He didn't know why but seeing it just made him feel weird. Almost like he was angry and happy at the same time.

Wesker quickly dismissed the odd feeling. It made no sense that he'd be feeling a sort of weird nostalgia for handwriting originating from the Parisian facility. He didn't even know anyone from from over there. As far as he knew, the only time he was even in France was...Wesker froze. The only time he'd been in France was right after the "accident" that had taken away his memories. He wasn't sure exactly what part of France that was but if it was Umbrella...and it was Paris...perhaps there was something to that weird sense of deja vu after all...

Much more cautiously now, Wesker read the brief note.

_Thought this might be of interest to you. -A friend_

The more he looked at the note, the more horribly familiar the hand writing seemed. Wesker moved his hand to his throbbing temples, trying uselessly to let whatever lost memory that was banging ruthlessly at the inside of his brain to come out. Like all the occasions when he tried to remember his blank past, it was utterly disappointing. He could just sit here straining and praying for the memory to return, but he knew from experience that he'd just wind up with a splitting headache.

Disappointed but still intrigued, Wesker began shifting through the pile, momentarily putting to rest the burning question of who this "friend" could be—not that he believed he really had any to speak of at the moment, especially in France of all places.

It only took him fifteen minutes of reading before he was bolting back down to the lab, documents in hand, all previous anger towards Birkin and his wife placed on the back burner to simmer.

This could change everything.

* * *

 _July 8th_   _, 1988; Spencer Mansion, Underground Lab, B4:_

Birkin had to admit, he was very surprised when Wesker showed up at the lab so soon after there little...he supposed argument was a safe word for it? He hadn't expected him back until tomorrow morning, maybe even later. It was undeniable that both he and Annette where more than a little intimidated by the man's sudden reappearance.

Things got even stranger when Wesker shoved the file in front of Birkin's face and began talking in hushed and unusually quick tones about the contents.

Birkin blinked up at Wesker in confusion. "I'm...a little unclear on how this is going to solve our Tyrant problem."

Hey, if Albert had decided to just drop what had happened not even a hour ago, Birkin wasn't going to argue about it. It usually took Wesker much longer to let things go if he ever did at all. As such this was a blessing...even if it was a strange one. Birkin still wasn't even sure what this parasite was.

Wesker's eyes narrowed slightly. "As if it's any better than your methods." He emphasized the research documents again. "Will, this could solve everything."

Birkin gave him a skeptical look. "How, and," he removed the papers from Wesker's hands so he could hold them up to his nose, "where did you even get these?"

Wesker scowled. "It doesn't matter where I got them, the point is, it may be able to bypass our brain problem..." Wesker sighed in annoyance at the fact that he was having to walk Birkin through this. It was like a heaven sent. That this "friend" knew exactly how to solve the problem of their most secret research project or even knew about it in the first place was a bit disturbing, but he'd get to that later.

Wesker grabbed the papers from Birkin and flipped through them until he'd reached the proper section. "This parasite, the NE-α was designed to augment a subject's intelligence by replacing the host's brain, allowing it to then be programed to follow certain commands." Wesker fixed Birkin with a meaningful look. "The control factor is a definite improvement. I don't know about you but the thought of creating an extremely strong  _and_  intelligent B.O.W.  _without_  a way to control it doesn't sound that appealing."

Birkin opened his mouth to retort but then closed it. "You...have a point." He waved his hand. "Go on."

Wesker smirked. "As I was saying. Our problem is that the T-S7 degrades the brain too much before the virus has had proper time to adapt, as you know this causes a premature cease of viral genetic mutation and results in a typical zombie."

Birkin seemed a little ticked at the rudimentary lesson. "Al, why are you telling me that? I know how T-S7 works."

"Arguable, or you'd have seen the connection already."

Birkin sent him as threatening a glare as he could manage—not very impressive in Wesker's books. Wesker interrupted before he could retort.

"The brain, Birkin." He sighed. "If we replace the subject's brain with the parasite shortly after infection we may be able to prevent the premature cease in mutation and thus produce a Tyrant without finding a perfectly matched subject."

Birkin pause for a few long moments, before re-grabbing the papers and beginning to rapidly flip through them, pacing around the room and muttering as he considered the likelihood of this working. All the while Wesker watched him, smirking at his success. Albert reveled in moments like this. It was rare that he came up with something before Birkin. William was obviously the superior scientist—not that Wesker would ever admit it.

Birkin finally stopped pacing. "Or we might just blow the thing's head off." Birkin pressed his finger to a very disturbing entry in the notes. "According to this, the cranial chamber of ever single B.O.W. they've tried this on has, and I quote, 'exploded.'" He looked up at Wesker sceptically. "That doesn't sound very solution worthy to me."

Wesker crossed his arms over his chest. "So it has a few bugs we need to work out. It's hardly better than your current plans."

Birkin slowly nodded his head. "That may be but..."

"We'll use It," Wesker cut in smoothly.

Birkin blinked in shock. "Lisa?" he gasped.

Wesker nodded. "Do you know how often we've tried to kill her and failed? How many times she should have died due to the sheer volume of serums we've pumped into her? Hell, she may even become out first Tyrant."

Wouldn't that be something...

"And if she does in fact die?" shot back Birkin.

Wesker shrugged. "Than I'll be happy in knowing that I've finally found a way to put that abomination to rest. The fact that we have no idea how to end her is exceedingly disturbing. It's a win win situation in my book."

Birkin frowned thoughtfully. "Those...are all very compelling points..." He looked down at the documents in his hands. "But...these aren't public Umbrella knowledge. From the look of these," he waved the files around, "this is some secret project they're running out of the European headquarters in Paris." He fixed Wesker with a suspicious stare. "How are you even going to get one of these things, let alone the amount we'd need for serious testing?"

Wesker was contemplating revealing the strange letter but decided it was better for both of them if he didn't. "You just leave that to me, Will." He began to make his way out of the lab for the second time that day. "I have a feeling that there is someone over there who is very anxious to see this experiment preformed."

* * *

 _July 11th_   _, 1988; Spencer Mansion, Underground Lab, B4:_

The evening after Birkin had agreed to Wesker's plan, Wesker had sent in a request to the Parisian facility for access to Nemesis Project. Birkin had thought doing so was risky, especially seeing how touchy Umbrella got with their secret experiments. Wesker figured...whoever, at the European Headquarters had mailed him the files wasn't doing it as an excuse to get rid of him and Birkin on the premise that they knew too much—if that was the case, the two would have been killed long ago. Spencer had already shown he had no qualms about doing just that. No, this individual wanted them involved in the project and seeing as they had the only B.O.W. alive that could possibly survive exposure to the NE-α, Wesker wasn't surprised they wanted him and Birkin on board.

Wesker had yet to hear anything from the facility but somehow, when he had heard the sounds of the approaching helicopter in the middle of the night, he'd just known it had something to do with the Nemesis Project. His hunch turned out to be correct, but where he had been expecting an entire crate full of multiple NE- α samples, only one small box containing a single experimental B.O.W. had been lowered from the chopper onto the heliport. Then, without initiating any sort of contact, the nigh invisible chopper had disappeared into the darkness leaving Wesker and Birkin alone with the tiny yet precious package.

It was now a decent hour of the morning but it felt like they'd been slaving away in the lab all day—probably because they'd started working with the parasite around two o'clock in the morning. The amount of per-experimental tests that had to be preformed on the tiny, seemingly insignificant B.O.W. were daunting.

They only got one shot at this. If it failed, they were back to square one.

Wesker was really beginning to think that this was some sort of under the table deal. No official documentation had been issued with the sample. That, coupled with the way in which Wesker had been made aware of the Nemesis Project in the first place and the way in which NE- α had been delivered to them, made him sure that something shady was going on here. But who was he to raise concern over such possibilities? The entirety of Umbrella was shady at best. Besides, if they made significant progress with the Tyrant Project and were able to help out the European Headquarters with their Nemesis Project, that should make all of Umbrella happy, even Lord Spencer.

Wesker looked closely at the miniscule, tentacled thing contained within the small glass test tube. Compared to all their other B.O.W.s it seemed quite harmless, but that view began to change when one thought about how the parasite was to be injected in the base of the spinal column and then would pull itself up into the brain stem where it would begin to rapidly digest and then replace the subject's brain tissue, all the while growing exponentially in order to fill its host's cranial space. He imagined the process would be excruciating, a hundred times worse than his nastiest headaches. Of course, the process usually ended with the parasite bursting out of the creature's head in a nasty explosion so perhaps the experience was much more than a hundred times worse...

Wesker looked up as Birkin approached holding the last set of results. "Are we ready?" he asked neutrally.

Birkin nodded. "Everything is a go on this end. I just hope this works," he muttered as they turned towards Lisa's test tube.

It had been years since they'd removed her from her watery prison and they both remembered in every nasty detail how bad it had been the last time she'd gotten out of control. Never the less, after wheeling her into position, Wesker entered the commands into apparatus to awaken its occupant and again thrust her into the cruel world that never seemed to tire in the task of subjecting her to more horrendous methods of torture. Instantly the loud rushing of water filled the small metal encased room at the back of the lab as the test tube holding Lisa Trevor prisoner began rapidly draining. It was time for the hideous girl to be given what was possibly going to be her final injection at the hands of Wesker and Birkin

After the water had finished rushing out of the last of the Trevor's glass prison, the front of the device began to open slowly down and outwards and towards the immaculate tile floor, carrying the hideous Lisa with it who was beginning to stir. Wesker couldn't help but grin in amusement as the creature writhed below them, straining uselessly against her bindings. They had learned from last time, there was no way she was getting a second chance to try to kill him.

To prevent a repeat of the day Lisa had tried to add Wesker's face to her disgusting collection, Lisa was securely fastened to the front section of the test tube, which by now had completely lowered itself to the floor. This binding was accomplished by a series of thick, tight metal bands confining her legs and arms in at least three separate places per appendage in conjunction with additional bands across her hips, abdomen, chest, and one final shackle, tightened to just short of choking, around her neck.

As a result, Lisa was trapped inescapably on her side in a fetal position, arms and legs curled towards her chest, back curving in a C-shape around them which gave the two scientist perfect access to the base of her neck where the parasite had to be inserted. Lisa certainly wasn't happy about her current predicament and was letting them know in a mix of screams and guttural hardly understandable shouts.

Wesker sighed, if he had to hear one more thing about her mother and faces...  
"So, are we doing this?" asked Birkin, drawing Wesker's attention away from the abomination before him.

Wesker nodded and took the unrealistically gigantic syringe attached to the glass, purple fluid filled vial containing the NE-α with his medically gloved hands.

"Al..." said Birkin hesitantly, halting his progress. "Do you...do you really think she'll survive this?"

Wesker paused for a moment. "I don't know. I believe there's a good chance that she will. But honestly, Will? I don't really care either way. Finally getting rid of this freak," he gestured to the squirming crying monster before them, "would please me just as much as finally finding a suitable host for the NE-α."

Birkin nodded slowly. "I guess...but she  _is_  one of a kind..."

Wesker scoffed. "Don't tell me you're feeling sympathy for this,  _thing,_ " inquired Wesker in disbelief. "Will, she's gone. She's...beyond hope. Killing her would be an act of mercy, no matter how horrific or painful; that's how twisted this monster has become."

Birkin winced as a particularly loud wail escaped what was left of Lisa's lips. "I was more approaching this from a researcher's point of view. We'd lose a valuable specimen."

Wesker shook his head. "We'd easily make do without her. Lisa Trevor outlived her purpose long ago."

Hesitating no longer, Wesker moved his gloved fingers to her sticky, loosely held on flesh at the base of her scull, having to push aside one of the disgusted loosely attached faces in his search for the correct location to inject the parasite.

Lisa reacted violently to his touch, screaming a jerking away as best she could, but her efforts were ineffective.

Finally finding the proper spot between the malformed vertebrae, Wesker jammed the needle in and pushed down on the plunger hard enough to introduce the parasite into her subdural space.

Lisa screamed in agony at the sudden and very rough injection into so sensitive a region, clawing desperately at her own restraints in an attempt to get away from the pain and the torture that plagued her everyday of her cursed existence in this world. All she managed to do was cut up her own wrists and arms on the unforgiving metal holding her in place.

Wesker stepped back, discarding the empty device on a nearby counter top and then moved out of the way so Annette could wheel over the portable MRI machine, and place it around her head. A few moments later, it was up and running, the monitors in the adjacent room displaying the contours of her dilapidated mind and the progress of the parasite now squirming within her.

Once everything was set, the two three scientists moved into the small observatory to record the results of their latest experiment on what was left of the terrified little girl who had come into this hellish mansion so many years ago, little hand held securely by her long dead mother.

Wesker, ever the cynic, was expecting her to die rather violently as her head exploded in a manner typical of other B.O.W.s exposed to the parasite no more than a few hours following her exposure. This belief was strengthened when Lisa started intermittently seizing, the restraints drawing blood from her thin skin as her body inadvertently jerked and strained against them. This was punctuated by more earsplitting screams and pleas for her mother.

Wesker rubbed at his temples and looked away from the monitor as it recorded the moment of the NE-α up the last bit of her spinal column and into her brain stem. Wesker didn't even want to imagine the headache she had now or how exponentially worse it would get right before her brain matter splattered the protective glass separating her from the monitors they were sitting at; there was something about heads exploding that really bothered him...

He supposed it was strange to find it odd that it did; watching heads explode wasn't exactly everyone's favorite pass time, but after everything he'd seen, it was just weird that he was so unsettled by it. Unfortunate as well, since that was the best method to kill the creatures brought back by T. It always seemed to give him a bad taste in his mouth...

"Al, Annette are you seeing this?!" exclaimed Birkin suddenly, pulling Wesker from his own thoughts.

Wesker jerked his eyes over to the monitor in order to visualize what had William so excited but was only met with the back of Birkin's head held inches from the monitor.

There were times he really wondered if William was  _that_ near sighted...

"No," Wesker growled, grabbing Birkin's shoulder roughly and pulling him back so that he could actually see the monitor. "But now I-"

Wesker and Annette both froze when they saw what was happening. He had been right; right in assuming that Lisa was the only creature alive that could adapt to the NE-α Parasite. The scans showed it actually fusing with her brain stem, her cells actively and rapidly incorporating the invading organism into her neural structure.

It was fascinating; still too close to call, but fascinating.

Lisa certainly didn't think so, the poor creature was yelling her lungs out to an uncaring world, her body trying and failing to flop about like a fish out of water as a foreign creature burrowed its way into her brain matter.

It bothered him; seeing her like this. It shouldn't and he hated that it did. The creature had tried to murder him in the past and would have absolutely no qualms about doing it again, but it didn't change facts. Wesker saw a possible, similar future for himself in this girl; a way his path could easily end and almost had on numerous occasions. It wasn't pity, no, far from it. It was more like fear—an emotion he was equally loathed to admit feeling—a fear that one day, he'd be the unrecognizable monster in the test tube screaming for mercy to the uncaring scientist slowly murdering him.

"Sedate her," ordered Wesker, his voice monotone, inwardly seething at the unwarranted feelings driving him to say something.

"What?" Birkin blinked in confusion. "What does that have to do with-"

"I can't imagine her being in that much distress his good for the process," snapped Wesker, trying to put the reason back on science, and attempting to ignore the strange looks Birkin and his wife were giving him.

Birkin just continued to stare between him and the monitor. "Al...I don't think that'll make a difference in the outcome..."

Wesker mentally cursed, but stood up and moved to grab the appropriate pre-filled syringe. "Fine than, I'll do it."

Wesker was completely surprised when it was Annette who handed him the syringe. By the way she was wincing with every cry Lisa made for her mother, Wesker had to assume she was feeling some sort of deep pity for the monstrosity. Perhaps maternal in nature—not that Wesker was really convinced she had any strong inclination towards that aspect of her womanhood. Either way, it didn't matter.

Before Birkin could question the why behind Albert's sudden actions, Wesker grabbed the sedatives from Annette and went over to the sick creation, thrashing, writhing, and screaming as if she was begging a humanity that had long since abandoned her to end it permanently; her constant sobs of, "MOTHER!" driving Wesker to the brink.

Rather roughly he jammed the solution into her arm. Wesker didn't even know if such an act would really affect the agony they'd happily induced, but at the very least, Lisa could finish her newest transformation in silence.

* * *

 _July 22nd_   _, 1988; Spencer Mansion, Underground Lab, B4:_

The experiments with the NE-α Parasite on Lisa Trevor had been a complete success; well, in the fact that she hadn't died, aside from that, it had been a utter failure. Lisa's body had completely assimilated the parasite, but that was about it. Her brain hadn't been replaced and no orders could be remotely programed into the NE-α, or at least none that she would follow. She hadn't really changed either. Lisa was still the same disfigured, grotesque, bloodthirsty monster she'd always been with the same unending obsession with her mother and the faces. Though, some degree of her intelligence had returned following the experiment.

When Wesker had sent the results of their experiment in to the European Branch of Umbrella, he'd finally started getting official correspondence back. Those at the Parisian facility had been shocked by their results, envisioning that their precious parasite would be wasted on the Arklay Mansion Facility. This hadn't been the outcome they were looking for in a successful binding, but it was more progress then they'd ever made with their creation in the past. As such, Birkin, Annette, Wesker, and Lisa were, once again, the talk of Umbrella, something the four were thrilled about in varying levels reflective in the order they'd been listed.

Wesker had never found out who his "friend" had been, but that question would have to wait until later. Right now, the question on everyone's mind was how had Lisa managed to completely eliminate the parasite?

They had determined a week ago that it in fact hadn't been incorporated into her neural structure—a conclusion that was reached by preforming an excruciating brain biopsy on their screaming subject. The implanted NE-α had quite simply vanished.

Wesker had suggested that may have been a defensive immune response and that was the assumption they were currently working on. The last few days had been spent examining and reexamining every ounce of Lisa's various bodily fluids they could get their hands on. Scouring everything for the source of this unexpected response. Seeing as they were no farther to unraveling the Tyrant, and it didn't look like France was sending any more of their precious parasites their way, this avenue of research seemed to be their best option. And, if they could isolate this defense mechanism, they might be able to utilize it to further slow the incorporation of of T-S7. So while it wasn't the avenue Wesker was hoping to follow, it might turn out to be the break they were looking for.

Even so, he was sick of sifting through Lisa's blood looking for the cause of the little miracle that had prevented her head from exploding. As such, Wesker actually welcomed Birkin's most recent interruption.

"Um, Al?" Birkin questioned hesitantly.

Wesker looked up from the electron microscope before him. "Hmm?"

"Do we still have the fluid from the test tube they sent the NE-α Parasite in?"

Wesker drummed his finger on the lab table as he thought. "I'm not sure. You should ask Annette, she's in charge of disposal and storage."

"R-right. I should have asked her, sorry," he apologized quickly, sure he'd offended Albert in some way. He had a habit of doing that.

Wesker smirked at Birkin's skittish reaction and leaned against the counter behind him, arms folded. "Why?"

Birkin who'd been retreating towards Annette turned to face him. "It's just I was thinking that maybe there might be some DNA fragments of the parasite in it."

Wesker gave him a quizzical look. "And why would you need-" Suddenly it clicked. "You're hoping to initiate another reaction."

Birkin nodded. "If it  _is_  an immune response she should be sensitized to it by now so even just the slightest exposure to the pathogen should illicit a reaction."

"And then we'll be able to see exactly what's causing it," Wesker finished for him. A pause. "That could work." He moved to follow Birkin. "Let's just hope your wife didn't toss it."

It turns out Annette hadn't disposed of the test tube or the shipping box. She was smart enough to know not to discard materials relating to ongoing experiments, especially items associated with a one of a kind B.O.W.. It also happened that Birkin was right in assuming that the fluid contained biological material from the glass container's prior occupant.

Several minutes later, the three of them were gathered around several Lisa samples awaiting exposure—blood, synovial fluid, and lymphatic fluid—each contained underneath an electron microscope whose feed was hooked up to three giant monitors.

"We're good to go," confirmed Annette.

Birkin nodded and placed drops of contaminated liquid into each of the samples.

At first nothing happened, then suddenly, the exposed sample of synovial fluid started reacting violently, completely destroying the biological fragments of the parasite. But it wasn't her immune system as Wesker had suspected that was doing this.

"What... is that?" questioned Birkin breathlessly.

Wesker and Annette remained frozen. They didn't know what they were seeing.

"That's  _not_  Tyrant or Progenitor!" exclaimed Birkin. "Right? Or am I seeing things?!" he asked excitedly.

"It's no virus I've ever seen..." confirmed Wesker slowly.

Annette nodded her agreement.

Birkin was practically rocking back and fourth on his heels. "Alright, we're going to cultivate it, then we need a full barrage of tests. I want to find out exactly what this strain is capable of."

Suddenly the Tyrant was a thing of the past. Today was the day the G-Virus was discovered.

* * *

 _January 7th_   _, 1991; Spencer Mansion:_

Two and a half years had passed since Birkin had discovered what was now called the G-Virus within Lisa's body. Tyrant had become almost obsolete to Birkin, and the new virus had turned into his obsession. The G-Virus was arguable vastly more powerful than either Tyrant or Progenitor had ever been. Like both previous pathogens, the G virus had the ability to rewrite a host's DNA, but G far surpassed its predecessors in this arena. The mutations it caused were unpredictable, much more volatile, and happened at an astoundingly faster rate. Not to mention, the regenerative capabilities of this virus were unheard of. It was this fact that made G so dangerous. If the virus ever got out it would be nigh impossible to destroy; they hadn't even been able to develop an effective antivirus.

They had yet to actually expose a human subject to G based on how dangerous the rats they'd first experimented on had become—it had taken them days to find a way to kill the little monstrosities. No matter what they did, the rats regenerated and kept mutating. Eventually they'd burned the bodies until nothing was left for the virus to cling too—that had been the  _only_ successful method.

The only positive was that, G, unlike T and Progenitor could not be transferred by the exchange of blood, saliva, or other body fluids. So far no successful secondary infection had occurred, but the primary infected rats had seemed to be trying to implant some sort of embryo into certain members of their uninfected counterparts.

Most disturbing of all, the virus almost had a will of its own. They had had so many close calls with a potential outbreak that Wesker couldn't believe it was mere coincidence any longer. It was as if it was trying to escape. Before, Wesker would have said such notions were absurd; that a virus could have anything close to a consciousness. G would have made the best argument for the theory that viruses were actually alive—if G was known to the public. As it was, hardly anyone within the company had knowledge of their newest experimental virus. For years just Lord Spencer and a few select others of his choosing were aware of the research Birkin, Wesker, and Annette were doing at the mansion.

It wasn't until this very day that the G Project had been officially approved. There were plans to have the primary research staff, himself included, transferred to the brand new facility located beneath Raccoon City—why they wanted to move the research on the most dangerous virus created underneath a plethora of possible human hosts making an outbreak almost assured, Wesker could only speculate. What he did know, was that he was done. He was getting out of the research department. What better time than now to leave when it had become a near death sentence to stay?

A few weeks ago, when he'd heard Lord Spencer would soon be officially approving the G Project, Wesker had put in for a transfer to the Information Department. Just to make sure he'd be accepted, he'd sent along several of the video feeds depicting his, by now, professional ability to kill infected.

On the same day as G became the official new virus of Umbrella, Wesker had received the acceptance letter. A company helicopter would be coming a few days from now to take him to an undisclosed location for training.

He hadn't told Birkin yet. He wasn't sure how to. He knew the man he'd once swore on his own life to protect would see this as Wesker abandoning him. Perhaps that's exactly what he was doing. He thought staying in this field was a death sentence so he was leaving; leaving Birkin and his family behind to whatever fate Umbrella had in store for them. It wasn't like those in the Information Department could expect much better. The life expectancy of either a U.B.C.S. or U.S.S. agent wasn't very promising, but Wesker was confidant in his own abilities. More than that, he wanted—no,  _needed_  answers. This was certainly the path to take to get them.

Regardless of where their now separate paths would leave them, he very much doubted that he'd ever see Birkin again and that...that bothered him more than he was ever willing to let on. But what was he supposed to do? How could he be expected to hold up his end of the bargain when William certainly hadn't?

He sighed, massaging at his temples. At the very least, Birkin would be the only thing he'd miss about this retched place.

"Uncle Wesker?" Sherry's small timid voice interrupted his internal brooding. "How do you play this?"

Scratch that...

He turned back towards the little blond four year old sitting on a stack of pillows at the grand piano, sheet of music resting in front of her. Her little hand was pointing towards a particular section of this new score that had been giving her problems for the last ten minutes.

Ever since the girl had become old enough to do more than drool on him, Wesker had began her very strange education. Most of it was probably too advanced for a child her age, but hey, Birkin was an absolute genius and Annette was no intellectual slob either. It made sense that Sherry would have at least inherited a significant amount of their superior intellectual capacities. He seemed he was right because the girl loved to learn, probably because she craved any sort of attention. She'd certainly excelled at playing the piano; something Wesker was sort of relearning with he as they went. He at a much faster rate than the toddler.

Wesker walked over to her. "Scoot over," he informed her curtly. She quickly did so, the cushions from her make shift booster seat almost falling in the process. "Now I'm only going to show you this once, so watch my hands closely."

Sherry's bright blue eyes became glued to his fingers, her expression one of absolute concentration. If he wasn't so schooled in acting like he didn't care about anything, he would have chuckled at such a look on her little features.

Yes, he would miss little Sherry Birkin.

* * *

 _January 9th_   _, 1991; Spencer Mansion, Heliport:_

Today was the last day of the transfer, the day William, Annette, Sherry, and as far as they were concerned, Wesker would be leaving for the Raccoon City facility.

Wesker had waited until this precise moment to tell them for several reasons. This method left no room for argument or foolish, unnecessary grieving. He was leaving, and at this point, there was nothing either he or Birkin could do about it. Perhaps it was for the best. They might both benefit from this separation. He knew it would do him good to finally get out of this life that was no longer really his.

Wesker watched as the Birkin family got onto the chopper, a frightened Sherry who'd never seen a helicopter before clinging desperately to her mother's blouse and alternating between burying her little face in her mother's neck and casting nervous glances back at Wesker.

Once Birkin was sure his family was secure, he looked back at Wesker, the slightly disheveled strands of his blond hair and the tails of his black trench coat billowing in the blade whipped wind. He hadn't taken a single step towards the vehicle.

"Al?" called Birkin taking a few steps back towards the man who'd once been his partner. "Come on, we're leaving."

Wesker shook his head, his features impassive behind the dark lenses. "No, Will. Not this time."

Birkin's features did an impossibly fast transition from confused to extremely worried and fearful. "You-you're staying here? A-Al, I-"

Wesker shook his head again. "I'm transferring to the Information Department. I done with the research."

Birkin's expression was now absolute panic and he quickly ran back over to Wesker. "B-but Al...you...you c-can't. What am I...How...Y-you just can't."

Nothing was coming out right. He didn't know what to say. All he knew is that Wesker couldn't leave. He didn't know how to live without him. Even if it wasn't like before Wesker was always there. If he wasn't...Birkin would probably never see him again. But how could he ask him to stay? He no longer had the right, but he  _needed_  Wesker to stay. More than anything.

Birkin couldn't protect himself or his family. That was something only Wesker could do. And Wesker...Albert was leaving. He could see it in his stern expression, his stiff stance and his, folded arms. He knew he couldn't stop him, but he had to try.

In desperation Birkin grabbed a hold of Wesker's shoulders, really considering hugging him—God it had been ages since he'd done that. "You can't."

Wesker admitted, he was shocked that Birkin was making such a scene. He had hoped to avoid this sort of ordeal by telling him so late in the game. Wesker grabbed hold of Birkin's arms firmly to prevent the hug that he could tell was fast approaching. "Will," he started, his voice earnest, looking him directly in his wide blue eyes despite the sunglasses in a way only he could manage. "We can't go back, you know this as well as I. This is where our paths part." He gave him a stern look. "You must have known this was coming."

He was thankful Birkin wasn't crying, even if he was close to it, that would just make it worse. "W-will," he swallowed hard. "Will I-I ever s-see you again...?"

The question had a desperate sort of hope to it. Like he was begging Wesker to say yes, even if it wasn't true and they both knew it.

"Perhaps," Wesker responded with a sort of careless smirk.

Birkin glanced between the ground and Wesker. "I-I know this is my fault...I...I'll miss you...Al."

Why did Birkin have to be so damn emotional? He was making this ten times harder than it should have been.

"I know," responded Wesker nonchalantly. "I'll probably think of you from time to time as well. Mostly how much of an obsessive pain you were."

Birkin tried to smile at the joke. "So...um...I-I guess..."

"This is goodbye," Wesker confirmed, watching as Birkin winced at the word.

"I-I'm sorry-" Birkin tried pleadingly.

Wesker shook his head before abruptly turning William around to face the helicopter and his anxiously waiting family. "I told you, we can't go back." He gave Birkin's shoulders a firm push but not before squeezing them tightly for the barest of seconds. "All that's left is forward."

Those would be the last words the two spoke to each other in a long time. In their minds, it would probably be the last they ever did.

Birkin only looked back once on his way towards his dark future and Wesker just urged him on with a quick jerking of his head. Seconds later he was in the passenger compartment with his family. Annette was throwing one of her arms around him, the other holding a quietly crying Sherry who, by the look Wesker could see her giving him, somehow knew he was disappearing from her life and wasn't going to play her savior any more.

Moments later the chopper was taking off and Birkin was throwing his final desperate glances towards the dark figure standing alone on the landing pad, getting smaller and smaller until the mountainside swallowed him up.

Wesker let out a long shaky breath as the little black dot that had minutes ago been the vehicle holding the man who had once been his reason for enduring all the atrocities Umbrella threw at him disappeared. As he turned back towards the empty mansion, he felt a slight smirk that slowly blossomed into a grin appear on his face.

There was nothing holding him back any more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How's that for a dramatic departure? (Not to mention a fast update.) Wesker is off to the Information Department and Birkin won't be coming back in for quite a while. Are you guys ready for this next section because I am psyched for all the upcoming action!
> 
> I hope you enjoyed the NE-Alpha experimentation and the subsequent discovery of the G Virus.
> 
> On another note, I really feel like I was able to get into Annette's perspective during the first part of this chapter which I really enjoyed doing.
> 
> See you guys next time. I hope you enjoyed the newest addition to Project W.
> 
> -Asiera


	18. Falling Angel 03: At His Fingertips

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alex is arguably the top Agent within the U.S.S., and as such, he doesn't have time for ridiculous missions like chasing down rouge scientists and playing escort to uppity heads of security. However, heading up a secret Wesker project under the direct control of Lord Spencer... well, that's much more up his ally.

**Project W: Falling Angel**

**Third Plummet: At His Fingertips**

_January 16 th, 1991; Las Vegas, Nevada:_

Alex readjusted himself, attempting to find a comfortable position, but after sitting still for over five hours in the parked company issue van, no amount of fidgeting would do the trick. Alex sighed in annoyance and re-lifted the binoculars to his face. He would have preferred to be closer, but the stereo typical, black, kidnapper's van wasn't exactly subtle. The again neither was his Italian sports car and his handler didn't really go for the “hiding in plain sight” argument. According to Intel, his target was holed up in the cheep motel across the street, supposedly, in room thirteen. Ironic since the man obviously had no luck.

Doctor Tucker Jameson. He used to be an employee of the nearby facility, but he'd cut and run after the company investigated him on suspicion of stealing several samples of their latest experiments with intent to sell. The fact that he'd run not twelve hours after the investigation was proof enough in Umbrella's eyes that he was guilty. And, the fact that he'd only run a few hundred miles to Las Vegas was proof enough for Alex that he had a local buyer. Either that or he was extremely foolish—though Alex supposed that was evident since he'd stolen from the corporation in the first place. If you wanted to get away from Umbrella, at the very least you had to vacate the country, and even then your chances weren't great. The company was like a parasite. By this time, it had extended its seeking tendrils to almost every civilized country across the globe and several remote areas like tribal regions of Africa, the jungles of South America, and even the frozen wastelands of Antarctica.

No, if he was still in the area, he had a buyer, and it was Alex's job to find out who.

One rogue scientist running from Umbrella with the fruits of his labor wasn't a huge deal. But a potential competitor, or worse, law official or even the media wanting to get their hands on company secrets could be a problem, the severity depending on how much this buyer knew.

Alex grumbled to himself as he focused the visual aids on the curtained windows. He hated these assignments. Tracking, torturing—if he was lucky—and killing worthless insignificant members of the company who were stupid or egotistical enough to think they could get away with screwing over Umbrella was beneath him, _far_ beneath him. Alex wasn't on Alpha Team—the big guns of the Security Service—but he could have been and for a short time, was. To put it gently, Alex didn't play well with others. After the second time he'd returned to base without his team, Hawke decided she was tired of getting her agents back in body bags and had assigned Alex to a solo position within the agency.

Being at the top of the U.S.S.'s deadliest list and Agent Hawke's personal muscle in the field, Alex usually didn't get ridiculous jobs like this. Unfortunately, he'd been the only available agent in the area, so here he was sitting in a trashy van, waiting for Dr. Jameson to make an appearance. He had to surface sooner or later, but Alex was getting tired of waiting. It felt like he'd been sitting here all day.

 **“Can't you just go in and kill him? Just get this over with?”** Albert's bored reflection sighed from the dark glass of the passenger side window.

“As much as I'd love to just break in there and end this,” muttered Alex in response, “you know Hawke wants this done quietly.” He set the binoculars down and started digging around the ivory colored leather brief case resting in the seat next to him for the mission file. He'd already been over it a dozen times but he was exceedingly bored and arguing with himself only provided so much entertainment value. “I just got off her shit list and I don't intend to be added again anytime soon.”

Albert's Reflection smirked in amusement, resting his chin on his hand. “ **Well that's what happens when you use her agents as live bait and most of them get eaten.** ” He glanced over at his brother. “ **I was disappointed she didn't return the favor**.”

Usually, Alex followed his past philosophy of ignoring things that most would have considered not part of reality, but right now this seemed better than sitting in this dark vehicle in silence. “Why would she?” he asked, facing the reflection. “I'm more valuable than all of them combined.

Albert's Reflection let out a barking laugh. **“Hardly. More accurately your sugar daddy wouldn't let Hawke eliminate you, even if you are a liability and highly deserving of such an awful fate.** _ **He**_ **couldn't bear to lose** _ **his**_ **favorite pet.”**

Alex glared, beginning to regret getting into this imaginary debate. “I can't believe you just referred to Sebastian that way...you disgust me.”

Albert's reflection glared. **“Believe me, the feeling is mutual.”**

Alex returned the glare. He should have dropped it, but he didn't. Unlike before, his hallucinations didn't hold the same sway over him. They were still disturbing and he still felt guilty as hell over Albert's fate, but by now, he'd learned to live with the apparition, or whatever you'd call it.

“You do realize you just refereed to me as a whore?”

The reflection grinned wickedly. **“If the shoe fits...”**

“It doesn't,” Alex insisted firmly.

The grin widened. **“Perhaps not in the physical sense, but I do recall you betraying your own twin for this murderous company and for the man whose ass you daily kiss. I'd wager that qualifies.”**

Alex winced. Of course it came back to this. Was it so much to ask that they get through a single conversation without circling back to the subject of his betrayal? Of course it was. Alex was smart enough to know that Albert's Reflection existed for that reason and that reason alone.

Several minutes passed in absolute silence, as Alex flipped through the meaningless pages and Albert's Reflection glowered at him from the glass.

 **“I'm not trying to give you the wrong idea here; that I'm in it to assist you, but for the sake of ending this boredom, look over there.”** His scared twin gestured towards the motel just as Alex's peripheral vision had picked up movement at one of the room's doors. **“I believe our rat has just exited his hole.”**

Alex grabbed the binoculars just to check, and sure enough, Dr. Jameson was making his way out of room 13, glaceing over his shoulders and jumping at every shadow; the perfect picture of suspicion. He couldn't be more obvious if he had a sign.

 **“I see you've found your next victim,”** The reflection shook his head in disgust. **“For his sake and yours, let's get this over with quickly.”**

Alex pressed in the button on his earpiece, allowing him to communicate with his handler. “Archangel to base. I've confirmed the target. Requesting permission to eliminate.”

A few seconds passed before static crackled over the device followed by Agent Hawke's stern voice. “ _Negative. We need to know who the buyer is. Give me a Sit-Rep._ ”

Alex internally groaned. “Intel was correct, the target was holed up in Resident's Hotel on the outskirts of Las Vegas, checked in under the alias, Jacob Grants. The target hasn't left his hotel room since I got here at 1400 hours until now,” Alex reported in a robotic fashion.

A longer pause. “ _Follow him. He may be meeting with the buyer._ ”

**“I highly doubt that...”**

Alex watched as Jameson crossed the street and then made a b-line to towards the McDonald's about a block down the street to his right.

“...He's walking into a fast food restaurant. I find it very unlikely that any deal will be going down in cheep hamburger joint.”

“ _Check._ ” Her voice was stern and he could practically hear the frown on her lips. Then the line went dead.

_I hate this..._

**“At least we can agree on something.”**

* * *

 

_January 16 th, 1991; Las Vegas, Nevada:_

Unless the acne faced, nigh morbidly obese teenager working the counter was his buyer and Jameson's payment was a cheep meal greased with so much fat and salt it made Alex sick to consider how many people thought of this as a staple part of their diet, the only deal going down here was one of a poor choice in a last supper. Alex wasted the next eight and a half minutes of his life watching the man nervously shovel down his very late dinner while jumping at every conceivable noise and casting around so many suspicious stares it was putting everyone within the nigh deserted restaurant on edge. Could the idiot be more suspicious? Alex wouldn't be surprised if the fat high schooler behind the counter called the cops and that...that would not be good.

Alex was contemplating just how pissed Hawke would be if he broke orders and just knifed the moron in a dark alleyway on his way back to the hotel when one of his phones went off. Alex was an important person within Umbrella's infrastructure and as such he usually had at least three or four different mobile devices on him. One was for the U.S.S. and another for the research position he still loosely maintained at the Parisian Facility, both were important in varying degrees, but it was when _that_ phone rang, the white one that was kept on and changed almost twenty four seven, that Alex dropped everything. That phone only rang when Wesker wanted something. Being a Wesker himself, Alex found it only natural that it was Sebastian Wesker was who he answered to first and foremost. That little fact was something Hawke loathed, but since Sebastian only answered to Lord Spencer, it was something she'd been forced to deal with.

 **“Looks like** _**he's** _ **calling again. Be a good little pet and pick it up before the second ring.”**

This time Alex did ignore his brother's reflection—though subsequently he did wait to answer it until after it had started its third ring.

“Yes?”

_“I have a mission for you. I need you back here now.”_

Sebastian's voice was as steady and even as it always was. Not a hit of emotion or urgency was given. Nevertheless, what he'd said and the fact that he'd called at all instead of just passing it on to Hawke meant that this was far more important than anything he was doing here—not that there wasn't much that wouldn't be.

“Of course, Sir,” Alex responded smoothly. “But you are aware that I am on assignment at the moment.”

 _“Yes, I am.”_ A pause. _“You have until dawn to finish. Transportation will be waiting for you at the local facility, but call first. There is something minor I need you to accomplish before returning.”_

“Understood,” Alex answered, slight grin at the corner of his lips now that he had a legitimate excuse not to do things Hawke's way. “I'll be seeing you shortly.”

The phone went dead and Alex replaced it within his brief case. He then calmly removed the earpiece he'd been using to communicate with his rigid handler and carelessly tossed it into the glove box.

As he pulled the van around to the dark ally behind the local fast food joint, he caught a glimpse of his scowling twin in the rear view mirror. Alex let a slight chuckle escape his lips. “You shouldn't look so gloomy, dear Albert. The gloves just came off, which means we no longer have to endure this cat and mouse game.”

* * *

 

_January 17 th, 1991; Las Vegas, Nevada:_

Doctor Jameson awoke to a pounding headache. He felt woozy and his entire world seemed to be spinning. The dim lighting was certainly not helping him get bearings. For the life of him he couldn't remember how he'd gotten there. He'd been walking back to the hotel and then...nothing. He tried to rub at his throbbing forehead but his hands wouldn't move. They were...bound behind his back...

Sudden panic gripped him and he let out a startled yelp, his entire body tensing and pulling against the tight ropes he now realized were snaked around his wrists, ankles, calves, and torso. All the useless jerking sent him promptly to the hard cement floor, knocking the wind out of him, and slamming the side of his head against the concrete. He let out a muffled sob as the pain in his jaw and shoulder added to his lists of aches. But this was nothing and the poor scientist knew it. He'd been caught; tied to a chair in the middle of some abandoned warehouse with a man or men no doubt were sent by Umbrella to kill him...or worse. What was in store for him now made this seem like a pleasant massage.

“Ah, so you've finally decided to join us, doctor. I was wondering when you'd come around.”

Dr. Jameson jerked his head, his already scraped face grating painfully against the floor as he struggled to get a good look at the source of the silky voice.

“Just so you know it is currently 0236. I have a previous engagement at dawn meaning I have precious little time to waste with you,” his captor informed him conversationally, as he glanced down at his watch.

It took him a while to get a good look at the individual in this horrible lighting, but once he had, between his appearance and his mannerisms, the figure towering above him wasn't anything like he'd been expecting. Dr. Jameson had been thinking they'd sent some brute to beat the shit out of him, but this man looked like someone out of those ridiculous Victorian movies his wife and daughter loved watching. He was young, perhaps in his late twenties and clad completely in white from his mid-calf high leather boots to his blindingly white tail coat. Jameson didn't even know people made clothes like that anymore. His hair was just as strange, platinum blond, unimaginably straight, and pulled back in a loose ponytail which fell all the way past his mid back. The only thing that threw off his rather princely demeanor was his face: Sharp, cruel angles that were set in an icy cold expression. Even his smile chilled Dr. Jameson to the bones. The terrified scientist didn't even want to know how frigid his gaze would be, but that was thankfully hidden behind a pair of reflective silver sunglasses that the individual was wearing despite the late hour he'd just informed him of.

In the end it didn't matter what this man looked like. He was from Umbrella and he was most likely here to kill him.

“P-please,” Dr. Jameson begged, tasting the dirt of the unkempt warehouse floor as he did, “Please d-don't hurt me. I-I'm sorry, I'll do what-whatever you want...”

Alex went on as if he hadn't even spoken. “As such, I hope that we can make this unfortunate little encounter as brief as possible. I do hope you'll forgive my rudeness, but missing my deadline simply isn't an option I'm afraid, so if I feel you're not cooperating I will have to resort to some rather awful methods quite quickly. Are we at an understanding, Doctor Jameson?”

“Y-yes!” Dr. Jameson squawked, tear filled eyes darting around the room in an attempt to locate any of the means to those aforementioned methods. He came up with nothing but the promise in those otherwise conversational words still scared him half to death. “I'll do what you want! A-anything!”

“Splendid,” beamed Alex. “Alright, just answer these two little questions and I'll be on my way.” Alex walked lazily over to the downed man tied like an animal to the wooden chair, a chair Alex would have broken ages ago had their positions been reversed. “First, where are the stolen research files and second, who were you planning on selling them to? That's all I need to know.”

Dr. Jameson's heart turned to ice. Of course that's what Umbrella would think. If he'd stopped to consider the situation for five minutes before bolting from the lab and running for the hills he'd have realized exactly what they would see this as. But he'd panicked. When those agents had come in, investigating everyone and then shown special attention to him... Dr. Jameson knew what happened to those who stole from Umbrella. He hadn't thought, he'd just acted. And now he was two steps away from being a name on the list of people who'd just disappeared.

“I...I...Oh, God please!” he cried, full despair taking him as tears rolled down his grimy cheeks. “I swear to you, Sir, this...this isn't what it l-looks like! I didn't steal anything! I w-wouldn't! I know what happens. I swear to God I'm being framed! I p-panicked. I was stupid! Please, I'm so, so sorry. I would never betray the company! I-I-I have a family! I'm begging you, _begging_ you, please let me go! I'll go back! I just want to see my wife and daughter....please!” His excuses and begging quickly deteriorated into barely recognizable sobs and further blubbering.

Alex sighed. _Really? The family excuse? What does he take me for?_

 **“Perhaps a decent human being,”** glowered his hallucination from a pane of shattered glass on the floor. **“A dire mistake on his part...”**

The venomous accusation only made Alex grin. _Quite._

“Doctor Jameson,” called Alex gently. He had to try a few more times before the man stopped trying to choke himself in his own secretions and looked fearfully up at him. “That is, truly a horrible and touching story. Just awful to imagine.”

“W-what?” asked a shocked Dr. Jameson, his eyes wide with surprise.

“Truly deplorable,” Alex insisted, slowly righting the man who flinched at his slightest movement. “Sadly,” sighed Alex, looking down at his watch. “It is now0240 and I don't have answers to either of my questions.”

Where once there was a flicker of hope in his captive's red stained eyes, now only absolute terror resided.

“So while I am very compelled by your story, I must restate that I am on a strict time table. I did inform you of those rather unsavory methods I would have to resort to should you fail to cooperate, did I not?”

“I am!” he screamed. “I am! I swear I'm telling the truth! You've got to believe me please! Please! Don't! Please!”

“Do you know what the most sensitive regions on the human body are, doctor?” inquired Alex calmly as though they were discussing the weather and the man had not just been screaming his lungs out at him.

“Oh God don't! I'm begging you! I'm begging you!”

“Most people go for the eyes or the tongue or start stabbing all kinds of places but then it just gets messy, people go into shock or bleed out, not to mention all that fancy equipment. The stuff you see on those TV shows is really just for entertainment value.”

“I swear I don't know! It wasn't me! I didn't! I didn't! No!”

“By far the easiest and cheapest way to torture someone is to crush their digits.”

By now he was just screaming incoherently.

“They are extremely sensitive—naturally since you need to know when you're touching or stepping on something harmful. And all you need to do it are one of these,” he produced a small pair of clamps, “which cost nothing, don't look suspicious, and you can buy them at almost any hardware store, and the best part, most normal human beings have twenty lovely specimens to choose from. Then when you take into consideration that I can crush...maybe a half a centimeter at a time on each one,” he laughed lightly, “well, we could be here all night before I'm through. No significant blood loss, no fancy expensive tools, no long drawn out process or preparation, and no significant hard work on my end or overly creative methods, just pure excruciating pain for as long as it takes for me to get my answers.”

 **“** _**He** _ **taught you that didn't he?”**

 _Actually, Hawke did. Sebastian taught me something infinitely more useful._ Alex thought smugly as he walked purposely back over to the terrified man, large metal clamps in hand.

“I DIDN'T DO IT!!!” screamed Jameson so loudly that Alex was surprised his voice didn't give out. The panting man slumped forwards weakly, his body shaking from the pure flow of adrenalin that was pounding through it. “I didn't...” he whispered. “I didn't...”

Alex sighed placing the hand with garage tool turned deadly on his hip. “Really now, you must understand my predicament, Doctor Jameson. Someone in your department—your very lab—is stealing important experimental data. It was being investigated and as soon as this is brought to light you run. But...” he paused for a second, “you don't run far. You wait here, not more that a hundred miles from the facility, so we have to assume you have a local buyer.”

Alex glanced at his watch again and let out a frustrated huff of air. “And now it's 0247. I really don't have time for this.” He moved the rest of the way forwards, letting the cool metal touch the tip of the captive scientist’s little finger.

“I was just doing what he said!” Dr. Jameson screamed as he tried uselessly to wriggle away from Alex and his promised pain.

“What who said?” asked Alex boredly, beginning to introduce a little bit of pressure through the device.

“Kingsley! He's just this guy, where I work! He saw that the U.S.S. guys were interested in me! He gave me the heads up. Said that even if I didn't do it they'd think I did and they'd kill me! I was still here 'cause I was waiting for my wife and kid! They were gonna meet me tomorrow and then we'd run! Oh, hell I don't know! Mexico maybe! I just don't want to die! Please! God Please! Stop! I didn't do it, I didn't, I didn't...!”

“Does this Kingsley have access to the same files as you do?”

“Yeah...we worked together for years, he'd just a buddy! Just trying to help! But he's stupid too! I'm sorry! I should have stayed! Just please don't do it! Don't crush it! I'll do anything!”

Alex pulled back the clamps he never had any intention of using back and tossed them to the dirty floor. “You truly are an idiot...”

All Jameson could do was pant and sob at he stared with fear filled eyes up at the Wesker before him.

 **“You never thought he was the culprit did you?”** asked his twin's reflection in disgust.

_This idiot? I doubt he could even come up with the idea to steal from Umbrella let alone have the know how to do it and to find a buyer._

Alex directed his attention away from Albert's Refection towards the sobbing man. “Does this Kingsley have a first name?”

Dr. Jameson just blinked at him in confusion.

Alex glared. “Please don't make me bring the clamps back over.”

That got his attention. “J-Jasper! Jasper Kingsley! B-but why?”

Alex rolled his eyes. “Your 'friend' set you up. And you acting as a perfect little rat. You did everything so horribly obvious the the U.S.S. couldn't help but think you were the culprit.”

“But he wouldn't...” His watery eyes winded in realization. “Oh my God! That son of a fucking bitch! How could he do this to me?!”

Alex just shook his head. “You really have no one to blame but yourself. If this was going to play out any differently you'd be a primary example of Darwinism.” Alex began to approach him again, this time removing the pearl handled combat knife from the sheath on his belt. His actions caused his hostage to start to cry and beg again. “Understand this,” Alex droned boredly, “I am not keeping you alive because I think you are of any great value to the company, how they can employ someone of your weak mental skills as anything beyond a door stop is quite the mystery to me. But as it is, you might still prove of some use to us in flushing out your 'friend.'” Alex began cutting him free. “Cause me any more trouble and that will change...quickly.”

Dr. Jameson nodded gratefully, relief spreading through him so quickly he almost went limp. “Thank you! Oh God! Thank you!”

“Please do shut up and get into the back of the van.”

As soon as Alex opened the back doors, the miraculously still breathing scientist threw himself into the van so fast he actually skidded and fell on the vertical’s metal floor. Alex wasted no time in slamming the metal doors and locking them behind him, trapping his captive in a makeshift mobile prison before getting into the front seat who's only communication to the back of the vehicle was blocked by a set of metal bars.

 **“You know they're just going to kill him once they finish with him; probably use him as a test subject for the very experiments he was accused of stealing,”** Albert's Reflection monotoned from the front window.

_Not my problem._

Alex took a second to adjust the rear view so as to visualize his captive who was currently huddled in a corner, knees drawn tightly to his chest, weeping in silent joy at the fact that he wasn't dead yet and all his fingers and toes were still intact.

Alex sighed. _Arguably the biggest waste of my time I've ever experienced...._

* * *

 

_January 17 th, 1991; Nevada, Umbrella Facility:_

Alex watched disinterestedly as Dr. Jameson was escorted away by a pair of security guards, disappearing into the depths of the facility from which he was likely never to reemerge. _Good riddance_ , he though scathingly as he extricated the bulky mobile device from his briefcase. He had no intent whatsoever of informing Hawke of how things had turned out. She'd find out sooner or later and he would deal with her almost assured anger at the way he'd handled things after he'd finished with whatever Sebastian had in store for him.

A few moments after Alex had made the call, he heard his mentor's voice greet him over the line.

“I've finished here with my mission and am ready to depart.”

 _“Not quite,”_ responded Sebastian and Alex heard the sound of papers rustling in the background. _“There is a chopper waiting to take you to the nearest airport from which you will be transported back to Paris, but there is someone I need you to bring along for the ride.”_

Alex raised an eyebrow. “And just who did you want me to personally escort back to the facility?” He really hoped that wouldn't be the extent of Sebastian's assignment. Alex was, as far as he could gather, the individual Sebastian trusted most. Any time Sebastian contacted him it was to accomplish something of the utmost importance. This hardly seemed to qualify.

Sebastian chucked. _“Oh don't sound so upset. I didn't call you to play escort, I have much more important things in store for you once you get back. This is just the most convenient way to get her here.”_

No matter how good he thought he became at hiding his emotions and perfecting his mask, Sebastian always saw right through him. It was infinitely irksome. “Who?” he asked on a monotone.

_“One Laura Wesker. She's head of security at the facility in which you are currently standing and a possible candidate for a new Wesker project, one I'd like you to head up.”_

Suddenly this became anything but a chore.

“Understood, Sir. I'm looking forward to the opportunity.”

More amused chuckles. _“Oh, you certainly will be, of that I am sure.”_

The line went dead and Alex folded up the mobile phone and depressed the antenna, perplexed look on his features. He could guess at the meaning behind those words, but it would be pointless. He supposed he'd find out soon enough. Regardless of where this new mission would take him and what Sebastian had meant, the prospect of meeting additional Weskers was certainly intriguing to say the least.

Alex walked over to the facility's front desk. Like the Parisian building the areas that were at least semi open to the public depicted an image in keeping with a state of the art pharmaceutical company who's only goal was to assist the public with their day to day medical needs and safeguard the health of their many consumers. As such the front desk was manned not by a stern looking security guard intent on ferreting out any dangers to the company and its secrets, but by a pleasant looking secretary, with a bright smile and kind eyes sparkling behind the frames of her oversized glasses. Likely she, as many of the axillary staff and the scientists in charge of keeping up the company's public mask, knew nothing of the real extent of what went on within these pristine white halls.

“Can I help you, Sir?” she asked sweetly as Alex approached.

Alex matched her friendly smile. “Yes, I need to speak to the head of your security staff, Laura Wesker, please.”

“Just a moment.” She looked down and began paging through the laughable large Rolodex to the left of her computer monitor. “Here we are,” she informed him sweetly, tapping an entry with one of her brightly colored fingertips. “Let me give her a call.”

Alex continued his very convincing forced smile. “Thank you so much.”

Silence fell over them for a few moments as she awaited an answer, the large black receiver held slightly away from her ear as to not flatten her hair. “Ah, yes, Ms Wesker, I have a very nice gentleman here who says he needs to speak to you.”

A pause.

“Hold on, let me ask him.”

The young woman pressed the phone against her shoulder and directed her gaze back to Alex. “What was it you wanted to talk to her about, Sir?”

Alex didn't even miss a beat with his response. “The recent security breach involving Doctor Tucker Jameson. I was the one who located him and there is some paperwork I need her to go over.” That should work. If she was in fact the head of security and a Wesker, she'd most likely be aware of the true nature of the research that went on down here—not near as damning as what they did in Paris, or places like Raccoon City, but still on the illegal, unethical side of things—that would be sure to get him an audience.

The secretary nodded and relayed his message, even though it was obvious she didn't even know there had been such a breach. After a short pause she hung up and nodded happily to Alex. “She'll be right down. You can wait over there if you'd like.” She gestured to the well furnished waiting room connected to the front entrance hall, separated by a spotless glass paneled wall sporting the famous Umbrella Cooperation logo as well as the phrase, _Our business is life itself—_ a line that had always amused Alex greatly. He nodded and sat himself down in one of the crisp white armchairs.

From his current position he could see the sun rising over the desert hills underneath which lay the true nature of the facility he now sat in. Unlike the fancy decorated gesture he currently resided in, the actual research took place several miles away under what looked like a little abandoned shack in the middle of the desert. The true facility and this facade were connected by an underground bullet train allowing the real employees to travel between this carefully constructed ploy and their highly unethical labs.

He'd heard many of the new facilities, especially the remote ones were now starting to employ this method including the Research and Training Facility outside Raccoon City. He wondered briefly if his brother would ever ride it before that train of thought was interrupted by whom he had to assume was the other Wesker.

She was dressed in a tight bullet proof vest over the black garb of a security worker that, despite its practicality did more pleasing things for her than it did for her coworkers. Laura was tall and lengthy with just the right amount of curves to give her the appearance of an attractive female without coming across as the girly, giggling secretary she'd strode over to with long purposeful strides. Like her demeanor, her features were pleasant but undeniably strong. She sort of reminded him of Hawke but much younger, significantly more easy one the eyes, and missing that stern coldness that kept all her coworkers flinching whenever she frowned. This Wesker was far from the ice that most the individuals he'd met were carved from. Her bright green eyes sparked with a fire matching the intensity of her wavy almost unnaturally red hair that caught her gazes from across the room.

Alex smirked to himself. From the small number of Weskers Alex had had the 'pleasure' of meeting, it was becoming apparent that at the very least, the company knew how to pick them.

Following the gesture of the secretary Alex had just spoken to, Laura turned and began making her way over to Alex. He didn't bother to get up, instead choosing to wait until she'd made her way into the otherwise empty waiting area.

“Good morning, Ms Wesker,” he started conversationally, “thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

Whatever effect he had been hoping his words would have on the young woman, it certainly wasn't the result he'd gotten. As soon as she'd laid eyes on his face, she froze, full lips parted in a small o of shock, green eyes wide with the same emotion.

Alex's eyebrows knitted together almost unnoticeably. Why was she reacting to him this way? Her expression was half way between that of seeing a ghost and looking like she was meeting an old friend. There was no reason for her to look at him like that...unless...

“...Albert...?”

The barely audible whisper confirmed his fears. Alex felt a strange new emotion rear its ugly head within his chest: jealousy swirled with rage, a combination that nearly broke his carefully constructed mask. This woman, this seemingly insignificant Wesker working as security at an unimportant Umbrella facility in the middle of nowhere _knew_ his brother. He hadn't seen him in over two decades, perhaps she'd seen him a few years ago. What was even worse, it was obvious that she cared for him, perhaps even he for her. It was unthinkable. It was unfair. He _hated_ her.

She began to step towards him, like she was going to hug him or something equally as disgusting. If she tried he'd probably snap her neck, right here in the middle of the waiting room, consequences be damned. He'd just lose it. He'd...

His hands were shaking.

It was this minute, little fact most would have found meaningless that snapped Alex out of whatever internal soon to become external fit he'd been having. His hands shouldn't shake. That would ruin his mask, a mask he'd worked so hard to make. He'd made the mask so he could go toe to toe with Sebastian. He'd erected the wall that had been crumbling so that he could endure all the horrors Umbrella hurled at him. And he'd done that, all of it, everything, so that he could protect his brother.

Yes it killed him inside that Albert possibly had a strong connection to anyone but him in ways he couldn't even describe, but he could handle it. He wasn't going to throw away everything he'd worked so hard for, for some stupid woman who dared to feel anything about his brother. He wouldn't throw the game for this. No. He'd keep playing until the day he could see his brother as more than just a twisted reflection, a name on a report, or a face on a video feed. Then he'd finally get the chance to make Albert understand how everything, _everything_ he'd done was for him. He wasn't going to ruin all of that for _Laura Wesker_. He'd get his brother's forgiveness, even if it took a life time, and even if it meant he had to play nice with this bitch who should be bleeding out on the floor at his feet for even thinking she had the right to know _his_ Albert.

Alex uncrossed his legs and stood, forcing his hands to be still and his lips to smile. “Perhaps you have me confused with someone else,” a voice that barely felt like his said pleasantly.

Laura froze. This felt wrong. She supposed she could be incorrect, that the man standing before her wasn't Albert. Hell she hadn't seen him since they'd been ten. But he just...he looked and felt so much like the boy that she'd met a lifetime ago it was uncanny. And somehow, at the same time, he felt like a completely different person. People changed. Twenty years could do a lot to a person. She certainly wasn't the same sobbing girl he'd met locked in that room so long ago. This wasn't like that though. Everything about him told her that this was Albert, the boy who had given her the will to fight and survive all these years, and more than that, the boy who'd given her the reason why she lived and fought: Finding a way to somehow take down the company that had destroyed the family she couldn't remember and the life she'd never get back.

She couldn't forget someone like that. This was Albert and at the same time was the farthest thing from him. It was as though she was looking at Albert's twisted reflection through a fun house mirror. It was...disturbing. She took a step back.

Alex observed the woman before him. He sensed her confusion and trepidation and internally fed on it. Part of him wanted to let this game continue for a while longer; to watch this woman who dared to think she had the right to care about his brother writhe in the shadows of doubt and uncertainty, but the other half wanted to sever whatever imaginary tie she thought existed between them and distance himself from her as quickly as possible.

In the end, he went with the later. “My name is Alex. Alex Wesker.”

Why not throw in the last name? If she knew Albert—and he _knew_ she did—than she should be at least partially aware of the existence of Project W. Something he was now loath to admit his brother might have discovered as well.

“I'm here to ' _offer_ ' you a change in careers.”

The way her stance shifted and her features hardened it was clear she hadn't missed the inflection or the meaning behind it, nor was she too pleased about the situation. “Is that so?” She met his shielded gaze with one almost piercing enough to ignore the reflective lenses between them. She admitted whoever he was—Alex, had thrown her for a bit with his nigh uncanny resemblance to the first person she could remember, but it was clear to her now that this wasn't Albert (she'd wait until a later time to figure out just why he felt so much like him). Laura wasn't going to let that weakness show again. Alex looked like the kind of man who would exploit it along with anything else she gave him that he could use against her. Typical. Like everyone else in Umbrella.

“And if I should refuse?”

Alex internally sneered. Bravado was not something he respected.

 **“I like her,”** commented Albert's reflection with a dark smile.

 _Shut up!_ Alex shot to the hallucination standing beside Laura's in the glass wall. _And what could you possibly find likeable about this twat?_ He found himself asking before he could reign in his suddenly wild emotions.

The reflection's grin grew even darker. **“Because dear brother, she unhinges you.”**

Alex quelled his panic and forced down his rage. This was not good. The last thing he needed right now was his hallucinations gaining more power over him and that's just what he was doing. He had to focus. She'd just asked him something right? He forced himself to ignore his laughing twin and direct all his senses towards the Wesker before him. Oh, now he remembered, she was trying to test her limits, to be defiant.

Alex fixed an even brighter smile on his face. “That would be ill advised,” he informed her cheerily. “The Director of corporation’s headquarters has personally requested your participation in this...project. I can't imagine refusal of this promotion would be good for your career.”

Oh, he was good. He sounded like some friendly guy offering her an advance but she could see through that. He was a snake in the grass and he'd just threatened her at least two maybe three times in the past two minutes.

Laura folded her arms across her chest. She'd already had enough of his bullshit, plus she was already pissed about his _probably_ unintentional unearthing of long buried memories and emotions. “That's nice.” Her tone wasn't even close to friendly. “But you didn't answer my question. I asked what would happen if I refused, not your personal opinion on my career path. Besides, I've never been too keen on Umbrella's personal little pet projects, so unless you've got a good reason, you can count me out.” She actually turned around and started walking away.

_The little bitch..._

**“Oh yes...I really like this one...”** laughed the reflection Alex was desperately trying to ignore.

Alex's smile never faltered. “Your _termination_.”

She paused, but didn't turn around. “We're not talking my career anymore are we, Alex?”

“No, I'm afraid not,” he answered sweetly.

Laura shrugged. “Well than, I guess that qualifies. When am I leaving?”

“Now.”

She actually looked at him this time. “Can I get my stuff?”

Jeez did he ever drop that fake smile? “Sadly our chopper is already waiting for us. We don't have the time.”

She paused. “This side doesn’t have a heliport. Whenever we do drop offs or pickups by helicopter we use the shack. I live over at the main side with most the long term staff so it shouldn't take long.”

“If you insist,” he relented even though he wanted to grab her by her red mane and drag her to the copper. “But since it is on the way and we do have a rather strict schedule to keep, I think I will accompany you. I'd hate for you to miss your flight.”

She smiled in an intentionally, obviously fake way. “That's real sweet of you, Alex. Thanks.”

Still smiling despite the fact that they both wanted to kill each other, the two Weskers departed the waiting area and, with Laura in the lead, made their way to the exit of the fake exterior and towards the bullet train that would take them into the facility proper.

In retrospect, Laura would suppose that she should have reigned herself in a little and showed some restraint towards the other Wesker. It probably would have befitted her in the long run. It wasn't his fault that he looked like he could have been Albert's clone. But there was a reason Laura was only working security in this rather insignificant facility. She had never been very great at controlling her temper, especially when she felt threatened or vulnerable. Being whisked away to Paris by some stranger who looked like a vision out of her lost memory—really not as romantic as it sounded—to be part of some other unknown Wesker oriented experiment from which she'd probably never reemerge definitely left her feeling both threatened and vulnerable. As she figured it, she was already living on borrowed time and it seemed like the corporation and finally come to call with the script for her final chapter. As such, why not go down with at least a little bit of a fight?

Though Laura had enough experience with Umbrella to have the general idea of where this path was headed, she never could have imagined the horrors that awaited her over the next few months; horrors that would persist and haunt her for the remainder of her existence.

* * *

 

_January 17 th, 1991; Umbrella Headquarters, Parisian Facility:_

Alex couldn't have been happier to leave behind the enraging creature known as Laura Wesker. Between her and his damned reflection playing off everything she said and all of his emotional reactions to her, Alex was past his wit's end. It was sweet relief to see her being escorted away by several hulking U.S.S. agents, hopefully never to be seen again.

Once he was free from his duties as escort, Alex slowly made his way towards Sebastian's office, taking his time, allowing the familiarity of his surroundings and the stillness of the stark white halls to calm his unusually active emotions. Little did he know, the gesture would become meaningless within the next few minutes. Laura Wesker was nothing compared to what Sebastian had in store for him.

Before he knew it, Alex was standing before his mentor's door. The light seeping from beneath the crack into the hall reveled that he was still up despite the exceedingly late hour. After staying up for nearly two days straight himself, Alex admitted that he'd have rather have waited until morning for this meeting to occur—preferably late morning, but the promise in Sebastian's earlier words would have kept him up wondering. Might as well get this over with.

He knocked briefly on the door before letting himself in. He didn't have to wait for a response, he was always welcome here.

Sebastian looked up from behind his desk at the intrusion, allowing the slightest smile to come over his features when he laid eyes on his protegee. “Alex, it's good to see you again.” The man actually stood and walked around the desk to him, wrapping him in the briefest of embraces that Alex could never quite figure out; whether they were a show of genuine affection, or a play to build trust, or even whether he himself really enjoyed them of was only returning the act out of necessity. “I've been expecting you. How was your flight?”

“Fine I suppose,” responded Alex unemotionally, not wanting or willing to get into the details of how acutely awful it had actually been.

“That bad, hm?” chuckled Sebastian as he retook his seat.

Always...no matter how hard he tried. What was he, transparent to his namesake?

“Well, perhaps this will change the mood.” Sebastian opened a locked drawer in his desk and slid across a rather thick file with the words, _“Unit W”_ written in Sebastian's graceful cursive across the top.

Alex sat down in his customary seat before Sebastian's grand writing desk, pulled the folder over to him, and began paging through the contents.

Several long minutes passed with the only audible sounds being the rustling of paper as Alex pursued the documents. “A special forces unit comprised solely of Wesker Children...sounds promising.”

Sebastian nodded. “Moreover it will give myself and Lord Spencer the opportunity to gauge the full abilities of the Wesker Children as a whole.”

“And you want me to...oversee it?”

Sebastian nodded interlacing his fingers beneath his chin. “There will be a selection process. A...weeding out if you will.” He waved a hand dismissively. “The initial candidates have already been chosen. Following significant training within the Information Department they will be 'tested.' The remaining Weskers will be placed on Unit W under your strict command. You will only take missions from myself and those Lord Spencer sees fit to send you on.” Sebastian leaned back in his chair. “That's the just of things anyway.”

Alex nodded, shuffling through the papers. “And who are these initial candidates?”

Sebastian grinned. “There's a list in the back section, all their files are attached. I think you'll find Lord Spencer's choices to be...rather appealing.”

Alex raised an eyebrow at Sebastian's word choice before flipping to the aforementioned area of the file. At first nothing caught his attention, then upon turning to the final profile his heart skipped a beat, his breath caught in his throat, and his stomach began doing flip flops. Staring up at him with hard blue eyes the same hue as his own was his brother.

“Albert...” Alex whispered before he could stop himself.

Sebastian leaned forwards and grinned despite how nervous this potential reunion made him. If Lord Spencer hadn't demanded it, he would never allow the two to meet or interact. “I thought that might interest you.”

Alex let his fingers brush over the photo. In a few months his twin would no longer be a twisted reflection of himself. After twenty one long years of separation, Albert and Alex would be reunited. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait in updating. I'll try to be more prompt in the future.
> 
> I hope you enjoyed this latest Alex-centered addition to Project W. Personally I was very pleased with Laura's reintroduction and the tension between her and Alex but I'd love to hear your reactions to it.
> 
> I know I did a lot of foreshadowing in this chapter, and true to my hinting we're going to get a lot of drama and action in the next few additions, the one everyone is probably looking forward to the most being Alex's and Albert's reunion which I am very excited about as well. We also have Albert and Laura meeting up for the first time in over two decades, the introduction of a bunch of new Weskers, and all the horror/action that stems from Umbrella's ominous "testing" process that will decide who makes it on to Unit W. I've been looking forward and preparing for this section for quite a long time and can't wait to get started. I'm hoping you share my enthusiasm as we move forwards with this story.
> 
> I'll see you all next update. Thank you, as always, for reading and your continued support, it's what keeps me writing.
> 
> -Asiera


	19. PG15A/W: The Hive

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Albert discovers what all of Umbrella's intense training over the past three months and all his previous efforts that got him into the Information Department in the first place have been building up to: An elite mission to reclaim the European Facility known as the Hive along side twenty four other agents all bearing the surname Wesker.
> 
> Many deadly twists and turns lay ahead for Albert and the other Weskers as well as a possible reunion with several faces from Albert's past, some of them not so welcome.

**Project W: Third Cycle**

**PG15A/W: The Hive**

_ April 5 _ _ th _ _ , 1991; Umbrella Training Facility, Colorado: _

Wesker relished the feel of the cool water as he splashed it over his sweaty face. He was exhausted both physically and mentally. It had been three months since he'd left Raccoon City and the Research Department; three months of borderline physical torture. When Albert had joined the Information Department, he'd expected there to be intense training, this was the department under which both the UBCS and USS fell after all. That's why he'd been spending such long hours in the mansion facility's pool and literally risking life and limb down in the simulation rooms with the B.O.W.s for so many years before he'd requested the transfer.

Nothing he'd accomplished previously could have prepared him for this. It felt like he'd been thrown into a crash course prepping him for the position of captain on the U.S.S.'s alpha team.

During his time within this small, miserable compound that seemed to have been erected in the center of the rocky mountains just to attempt to murder new Information Department recruits, Wesker had been thrown in with some of the toughest trainers, put through the most rigorous scenarios, and been pushed to and past his limits over and over again. Even worse, it _never_ stopped. Wesker had been functioning on three to five hours of sleep, sometimes less, for longer than he cared to recount. 

Naturally, all this insane training and stress was having its effect on him, effects that showed more than he cared to admit.

Wesker lifted his eyes to the reflection staring back at him in the grimy glass and winced. He didn't even recognize the haggard looking man staring back at him. His usually sharp, stormy blue eyes were dim and etched circles dark enough to rival the ones he'd worn in his earlier days within the Research Department. His usually perfectly slicked back hair was visibly dirty and hung limply around and into his tired face. It was longer than he would have liked and was greasy enough from days of nothing but quick rinses that he didn't even want to touch it in an attempt to make the useless mess somewhat presentable. And that wasn't even the worst of it. His features were covered in a layer of unkempt light blond stubble that itched persistently and drove him crazy whenever he had half a second to think about it.

He looked worse than Birkin had on his bad days when his obsession with the virus had driven him to abstain from all things necessary for daily civilized existence. At the thought a pang of something akin to homesickness shot through him, and for a brief moment he wanted nothing more than to fall in bed next to William and forget any of this madness had ever happened.

Wesker shook his head adamantly and then splashed some more of the freezing water over himself for good measure. He couldn't afford to think like that. Any weakness he showed at this point could prove incapacitating or even deadly. There was no turning back, even if he wanted to. At this point all he could do was move forward and try his damnedest not to falter. He had no choice.

Wesker sighed heavily, his limbs visibly shaking with the seemingly impossible task of holding his body erect after everything it had already been put through today. If his screaming muscles had any say in the matter he'd have just fallen into his thin, moth eaten sheets and let the exhaustion that had been hounding him since...God it felt like forever, take him.

Wesker gritted his teeth and shook his head. Enough was enough and no matter how tired he was he was still Albert Wesker and Albert Wesker didn't present himself in this way. At the very least he was going to shower and shave, even if that simple act killed him.

* * *

 

Wesker exited the cheep locker room area washed, finally clean shaven, and feeling at least forty percent better. He still didn't look near as good as he had before he'd come to this hell hole but he'd done what he could with the inexpensive, generic, and rather sparse self care supplies that had been provided to him. He still hadn't bothered to cut his loosely slicked back hair—if this place didn't have conditioner or lotion he doubted they'd even heard of hair gel. Since the only thing he had to cut the longer-than-he-preferred, blonde strands was his combat knife and he shivered to picture the results should he have attempted it.

So, clad in loosely fitting black sweat pants, a black t-shirt, and sporting several fresh scrapes to his now hairless face—Wesker wasn't yet trained in the art of using his knife as a straight razor—Wesker dragged his aching body down to the common area with all intentions of stopping the insentient rumbling in his empty stomach and then making the long trek back to his room where he'd sleep until his insane training schedule forced him to rise a few hours later.

Wesker never made it past swallowing down the first few bites of the gruel he'd long ago stopped caring was barely fit for consumption. Not five minutes after he'd sat down at one of the dingy, wooden, bench style tables, Wesker noticed two heavily armed U.S.S. agents approaching him.

He tensed. Even though it was fairly standard to see both U.S.S. and U.B.C.S. agents walking around this barracks Wesker couldn't ever make himself feel too comfortable around them, especially not after what he'd heard during his second week of training.

Wesker had overheard two of the facility workers talking about the Wesker Children. The just of it had been something along the lines of, _“They keep sending us Weskers. What the hall are they planning to do with all of them? I didn't even know about that...what's it called? Project W until now.”_ Wesker had barely continued what he was doing as they talked, his ears straining to catch the words over the metal clanking sounds echoing around the weight room. 

His effort hadn't been rewarded with much of anything else because a third, more experienced looking Umbrella trained solider had quickly told them to keep their mouths shut and jerked his head in Albert's direction. Since then, he'd heard other whispers indicating that he wasn't the only Wesker in this facility, though he hadn't seen any of the other individuals carrying around his name. Still, he couldn't shake the feeling that Umbrella was definitely up to something—nothing new for the ever active company, but since this time it probably involved him again, he couldn't help but be a little on edge. 

“Albert Wesker.”

Wesker casually looked up from his obnoxiously bright orange, plastic cafeteria tray as though he'd just noticed their hulking presence and wasn't preparing for the worst. “Yes?” he affirmed nonchalantly.

“We need you to come with us,” ordered the taller of the pair. “You've been assigned your first mission.

Wesker stood cautiously. He found it hard to believe that they'd pull him from training so suddenly to throw him headlong into his first assignment. Running on no sleep and barely any food it seemed like a waste of a perfectly good agent. Then again, this was Umbrella and Umbrella never struck him as a company that was concerned too heavily about its cogs, even ones as important as Wesker liked to think he was. Not that Albert had any intentions of dying do to this poor handling. That wasn't an option. He was just trying to wrap his tired mind around the situation.

The second agent shook his head when he noticed Wesker looking back towards the direction of his room. “You won't be needing anything. All necessary equipment will be provided to you once you reach the destination.”

“Of course,” Wesker agreed even though he'd have liked to feed both of his new escorts to the B.O.W.s he used to spend all day creating. Moving from the director of a facility to a mere trainee wasn't an easy adjustment for someone like Albert Wesker to make.

As he was forcefully walked off towards the heliport by the two faceless agents, Wesker was at least able to find comfort in the fact that he'd cleaned himself up for his debut mission in the Information Department.

* * *

 

_April 6_ _th_ _, 1991; Umbrella Private Luxury Jet:_

Wesker found himself praising the fact that the Umbrella was filthy rich and that it enjoyed flaunting that money at every opportunity it was presented with. The flight that Wesker had eventually ascertained was transporting him overseas to Europe was accomplished in a highly expensive private jet. It was the really fancy kind that didn't have rows of seats but clusters of plush luxury armchairs that were perhaps nicer than even his favorite office chair that his aching back had been missing greatly over the last few weeks.

Another plus, the airliner was practically empty. Wesker had counted only about five other passengers seated in various areas of the plane, all of them choosing to place themselves as far a possible from the other riders as they could manage. Still, despite the distance, his company put Wesker immensely on edge. From their dark, company issue gear, to their shielded eyes, to the stern expressions plastering each of their faces, everything about them made him feel as though he was looking into some sort of strange mirror. Each one of them were Weskers, the barely acceptable briefing that hadn't told him anything else remotely useful had assured him of it. Even the young twenty something with her shapely legs resting carelessly on the table in front of her, eyes shielded behind rosy colored glasses the same shade as the tips of her ridiculously dyed, otherwise brunette hair somehow managed to share his last name. It was disturbing to think of there being “more hims,” especially when they were so close now it was undeniable.

Wesker sighed, directing his pensive gaze out the window at the billowing white clouds hiding an endless expanse of blue ocean below, much more at ease with being thousands of feet above the ground then the last time he'd flown in one of these contraptions, even with the addition of his rather shady company. Things were definitely getting more interesting by the minute and though he was torn between worrying over the mess he'd unwittingly thrown himself into with his transfer and his excitement surrounding the possibilities of discovering more about his mysterious past and his equally unreadable future, Wesker couldn't find it in him to regret his decision to leave the Research Department.

He had so many questions; questions that he knew were impossible to answer right now. At the moment Wesker only knew a few things for sure, his exhaustion from the recent training and constant wondering over the endless possibilities before him significantly narrowing his scope of concern for the time being. One: Umbrella was planning something big with the Wesker Children, something he was surely flying right into. Two: He was exceedingly pleased with the fact that there were no stupidly grinning flight attendants serving peanuts. Those nuisances had been replaced by gruff faced Umbrella staff workers severing actual decent meals that had done wonders for the empty pit his stomach had become in recent weeks. And three: Wesker was fully intending to use the remainder of the long, international flight to some undisclosed location in Europe to catch up on the much needed sleep his trainers had been robbing him of. He was sure he'd have plenty of time to brood over the disturbing Wesker situation at a later date, one when he could keep his eyes open.

* * *

 

_April 6_ _th_ _, 1991; Umbrella Headquarters, Parisian Facility:_

The rage boiling in Alex's chest as he practically stormed through the hallway towards Sebastian's office was blinding. Since his violent separation from Albert, Alex never recalled feeling emotions so strong, so utterly over powering that he was helpless to control them. It was ten times stronger than anything he'd ever felt towards the company, or even towards that infuriating woman, Laura Wesker who had several hours ago been shipped off to the testing facility where she'd probably never return from.

The same place _he_ was right now.

Alex bowed his head against the shear weight of the feelings crashing down on him; rage mixed with an electrical sensation of panic and terror threatening to snap him right in two. It had only been five minutes or so since he'd seen the live feed but already he felt waves of despair and hopelessness washing mercilessly over him.

This was _not_ how it was supposed to be!

On the precarious edge of something he couldn't even hope to comprehend, Alex threw open the door to his mentor's office, the extreme force behind the gesture causing it to slam noisily against the wall. He was panting, the effort of keeping himself from falling to pieces becoming a physical thing.

“ _W-why...?_ ”

It was the only word out of hundreds of competing ones that managed to force its way past his gritted teeth.

Perhaps it was the suddenness of his entrance, or the indescribable intensity of his unhidden glare, or maybe it was just the fact that the cool ice that was usually Alex Wesker had melted into a raging mess of emotions, but Alex swore he saw the older man jump a little. Whatever it had been, Sebastian immediately regained his composure, and fixed his pupil with a stern but even stare.

“Alex, calm down,” he commanded slowly and sternly, not allowing any of the fear he was experiencing at seeing Alex so unhinged to show through his defenses. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of....

“Why is _he_ there!” Alex demanded, voice raised higher than Sebastian had ever heard it.

“Because,” responded the older man calmly deciding feigning ignorance at just who “he” was would be counter productive, “he is being tested for a position on Unit W along with the rest of the chosen Wesker Children.” _A mistake...a huge mistake..._

“But he's not supposed to be!” raged Alex looking torn between starting to tear apart his mentor's room or the man sitting calmly before him, hands clasped more tightly that usual underneath his chin. “That was the agreement! Albert didn't have to go through the culling! He'd be directly accepted into the project!”

“Plans change, Alex,” Sebastian informed him in as smooth a voice as he could force out.

“Why?!” Alex bellowed for a second time, finally settling for slamming his hands down on the glassy, wooden surface of Sebastian's desk. He looked halfway between pleading with his mentor and threatening to kill him if this situation wasn't rectified.

“Lord Spencer,” Sebastian answered, not having so much as blinked in response to the intense display that had previously been unheard of from Alex, arguably the company's greatest asset, an asset they were this close to losing. Whether they realized it yet or not, Sebastian knew that doing this was a mistake; one they would probably pay dearly for in the future. “He ordered that all Weskers serving as possible candidates for the unit be tested; no exceptions, aside from you.”

“But...” Alex's arms were shaking again as they held him up over the desk. He had stopped yelling...for the moment anyway. “They can't...” Alex looked up, raging eyes meeting Sebastian's cool emerald gaze. “I-I made that place a death trap.”

And there in lay the root of his break down. Once Alex had been informed of his role in selecting, culling, and then leading the remaining Weskers to do as the company desired, he had first made absolutely clear that his brother would not be subjected to whatever testing facility he was to set up. Sebastian had assured him that Albert would be exempt, and, believing that Umbrella would not sacrifice one of their most valuable scientists, Alex had delivered. The Hive was a nightmarish place. Of the twenty five Wesker's entering, all highly skilled and expertly trained, Alex only realistically expected about five to walk out of there alive. If his brother died it wouldn't just be Umbrella's fault, it would be his handy work that had killed him. Albert's death would be on Alex's hands, a stain he didn't think he could bare if just the risk of it nearly destroyed him. He was this close to failing in every sense of the word.

Sebastian leaned forward and placed a hand on Alex's shoulder, falsely assuming that the worst of his protege’s outburst was over and that comforting reason was now his best option. “Alex,” he began softly, “It is a survivable death trap, else the effort would be a waste of time for Umbrella. You've seen the videos Albert attached to his application for the Information Department. He's good at killing B.O.W.s, and what's more he's proven himself highly capable by surviving within one of the most cutthroat research facilities for so long and _thriving_. The chances are very high that he will walk out of this and join you. He is your twin after all.” _God help us all if he doesn't._

Normally Sebastian would never use such a gentle comforting tone with anyone working under him, but Alex was different. Alex was an extremely valuable resource that the company... no, that _he_ couldn't afford to lose. Sebastian would be lying if he said Alex hadn't become extremely fond of this particular Wesker in the years he'd worked with him. He still firmly believed that Alex was one of a select few, perhaps _the_ _only_ Wesker Child truly worthy of his name. As such, he needed to get this train wreck under control and fast. The rest of Umbrella didn't see the vast potential and equally huge danger lurking behind Alex's usually serene blue eyes, but he did.

Any sense of relief Sebastian had felt when Alex had seemed to let go of his rage, opting for the desperation and despair Sebastian had hoped he'd begun to sooth instantly vanished. Alex's eyes flashed harder than he'd ever seen them, looking like as deadly as sharp steel poised for the kill. He effortlessly and harshly knocked his mentor's offending hand to the side, eyes glinting in pure hatred as he stood to his full height. “He _will_ make it out.”

Alex didn't have to say the “or else...” It was implied in every flash of his wrathful gaze and the very continence of his stiff form. He also didn't have to elaborate on what exactly would happen if Albert didn't survive the upcoming “test.” All of the fears Sebastian had carried since the first day he'd met the young Wesker flashed through his mind, a hair's breath away from becoming a reality, one he was now certain he would not be spared from.

Almost mercilessly, Alex released his aging mentor from his chilling gaze and turned purposely towards the door, unyielding determination covering his features.

“W-what,” God, did his voice just falter? He cleared his throat and started again. “What are you planning on doing Alex?”

Sebastian had known the man long enough to realize that he would not just sit by idly, not when Albert, the only person in this world that had any sway over him, was in such grave danger.

Alex didn't even bother turning back, his long, pulled back hair and coat tails starting to flap and sway as he picked up his pace. “I'm going to ensure things play out correctly.”

Sebastian actually stood, calling after him, palpable strain in his voice as he imagined the possibilities, none of them pleasant, of what his protege might do upon arriving at the Hive. “Alex it's to late to stop it! They have direct orders from Lord Spencer, and by the time you get there the testing will have already begun!”

Alex did stop this time, whipping around to face his namesake and the man who had started all this madness, fully appreciating the tight lines of worry covering his face. “Well,” he began with a devilish smirk, “then I suppose I'll have to improvise. As you know, I'm quite good at that.”

Sebastian couldn't help but feel a swell pride swirl itself among the doubt and fear blanketing his consciousness. He'd helped make Alex the monster he was today, and it was his creation that was one false move away from being released in all his terrible glory on Umbrella and the rest of humanity. No matter how this game met its conclusion, the one certainty was that it would be magnificent to watch.

* * *

_April 6_ _th_ _, 1991; The Hive, Civilian Level:_

Another Umbrella mansion, hidden deeply within the twisting branches of another dark forest, located on the outskirts of another town all together oblivious of the truth sprawled sinisterly beneath them. Déjà vu didn't even begin to describe the feeling. The irony was not missed nor appropriated by this particular Wesker. It seemed he'd just escaped one horror filled mansion to be thrust into another. Albert had to wonder just how many of these disturbingly disguised facilities the company had sporadically situated throughout the world's various forests.

The other Wesker's didn't seem similarly affected by the dark grandeur that could have been the Spencer Mansion's sister, or at least they didn't show it. Perhaps he was the only Wesker here unlucky enough to be subjugated to the horrors contained within two of Umbrella's creepy mansions—after surviving for so many years in the one outside Raccoon City, Wesker would be a fool to believe that this grand estate really severed as some eccentric's summer home. Past experiences coupled with the fact that this seemed to be the location for the “Wesker Mission” made Albert was sure they were in for a very unpleasant experience.

Albert counted twenty four other Weskers filing off the S.W.A.T. style buses, each one wearing the same black combat garb he'd been issued, carrying the same M-16 automatic rifles and Beretta hand guns he'd been handed upon entering the large black vehicles stamped with the Umbrella logo, and shielding their eyes and whatever expressions they may have otherwise been reveling behind a wide array of various colored, darkly tinted sunglasses. Where Albert had always wondered if his severe headaches and the significant light sensitivity he experienced on a daily basis had anything to do with...whatever experiments Umbrella had already preformed on him and the other Weskers, he was now sure there was a direct link, the twenty four different pairs of sunglasses around him being proof enough.

Albert carefully sent a curious glance around at the guarded expressions of his experimental bothers and sisters. They were taking it well, all things considered. Albert imagined that while many, like him, would have discovered the existence of Umbrella's secret little Wesker project, at least some of them had to have been completely in the dark about the existence of the other Wesker Children until now. The short briefing he, and he assumed the other Weskers, had received before boarding the aircraft that had taken him to Europe was hardly satisfactory in its explanation. But when had Umbrella been anything but vague about their heavily guarded secrets?

In short clipped statements, the U.S.S. soldiers had informed them that, during their childhood, they had “participated” in an Umbrella project that was described as a “public service” where the company had preformed “life saving” surgeries on children who'd experienced “incurable” traumas and had “no legal guardians to speak for them.” Umbrella had “saved their lives” and then “guided” their growth into the “upstanding individuals” they were today. The Wesker Children selected for this particular assignment were “the best of the best” in their field and were needed by the company that had “saved their lives” so many years ago, to rectify a “problem” at a highly advanced European Facility known as the Hive.

That was it. No chance for the questions that had no doubt been burning in the throats of everyone present had been given. Even though the speech had been brief, Wesker had never heard so many lies crammed together in such a short span of time for quite a while. He honestly wondered why they bothered. If the Weskers here were all serious members of the information department, it was likely they knew a significant part of the truth about how wickedly immoral the corporation was. There was no need to lie to them in an effort to paint Umbrella in a positive light when most if not all of them knew what a ridiculous joke that was.

Regardless, no one in his group of six had said anything, further proving to Albert that these Weskers at least knew what happened to those who spoke out against Umbrella. He supposed if nothing else, the speech was amusing.

In the same complete silence that they had traveled to the Hive in, the mass of black clad individuals filled into the grand entrance hall whose enormous size for once seemed appropriate. Albert noted that, while the outside of the estate looked very similar to that of the Spencer Mansion, the interior was much more modernized in comparison to the classic Victorian design of its sister. It still gave him chills though, the stark emptiness and absolute stillness giving off the impression that no one had lived here in quite a while. Albert was both extremely apprehensive and exceedingly anxious to discover what sort of “problem” warranted sending in a pack of Weskers to fix.

Suddenly vibrant red flashed across Albert's peripheral vision, and for just a moment, the soft sent of wildflowers touched his senses. Instantly his rather grim minded train of thought came to a screeching halt and the chaotic flashes of what were his first memories flooded his consciousness as well as a single name:  _ Laura _ . 

Albert shook his head in an effort of clear it, eyes snapping towards the Wesker who'd just walked past him. His halt in any form of forward progress caused the brunette female Wesker behind him to snarl in annoyance as she barely missed walking into him—not that he really noticed or cared at the moment. All Albert's focus was lazered onto the tall redheaded Wesker standing a few yards to his right.

It seemed impossible. It had been over twenty years since he'd seen her. It wasn't even logical to assume he could recognize her after so long. In all reality, Laura Muller was probably dead. Living in Umbrella's care wasn't exactly good for one's health. Even if she was still alive, what were the odds that out of the hundreds of Weskers scattered throughout the world both she and him were one of the twenty five gathered in the Hive's foyer. Still, even though all logic told him it couldn't be her, Albert couldn't stop staring, the “what ifs” and “Maybes” driving him mad. 

She hadn't seen him, eyes hidden behind red tinted lenses looking straight ahead; eyes that he all but knew were a sparkling shade of emerald. Usually he wasn't so easy to glance over, but even after the marvels a decent rest and proper time to groom had done for his appearance, surrounded by a sea of black, dark lenses, and striking features, he supposed he, for once, looked rather average. Part of him was glad for that little miracle, as much as it loathed him to think of himself in such terms. He wasn't sure what he'd do or say had she noticed his stare.  _ 'Hi, remember me? We met twenty one years ago after the surgery that wiped our memories clean. I was strapped to a bed and you gave me the little slip of paper I've been basing my entire existence around for the past twenty one years.'  _

Yeah...that was a really bad idea.

At this point he wasn't even sure if approaching her at all was a good move let alone have any idea about the right way to do it. If she wasn't the little girl he'd met so many years ago, either by time's cruel hand or a case of mistaken identity, and he let too much slip...well, it could prove to be deadly. This wasn't exactly your typical,  _ 'Oh my god is it really you? I haven't seen you in forever!' _ The very fact that they knew each other could be considered treason against the corporation.

No, for now he was content to wait, watch, and listen.

Albert sighed and tore his eyes for the bright shock of hair and directed his gaze towards the opposing wall which had suddenly become lit by a projected image of the octagonal Umbrella logo. The intense silence already surrounding the gathered Weskers somehow became even more palpable as they awaited whatever was to come. The following recorded words, unaccompanied by any sort of visual aid aside from the red and white logo, were almost shattering as they cut jarringly through the quiet. It was even more shocking to Albert, because the voice reverberating through the foyer...sounded like him. It was so similar, as ridiculous as it was, he had to actually mentally ensure himself that he wasn't speaking and then verify that this wasn't some recording Umbrella had secretly taken of him. Both outlandish possibilities put to rest, Wesker listened in confusion to the hauntingly similar voice.

_ “Greetings, my name, like yours, is Wesker. You have been called here today to salvage the Hive, one of Europe's most state of the art facilities...and to test the effectiveness of the Wesker Project.” _

At least this individual was partially honest.

Suddenly the slowly rotating Umbrella logo was replaced with a detailed diagram of what must have been the aforementioned facility which, true to its name, was shaped like a highly complicated bees' nest. Fifteen floors, each one decreasing in size from the last, stretched down beneath cluster of buildings denoted as London, the structures beginning, according to the scale at negative eight hundred feet and extending down to around the negative thirteen hundred mark. 

_ “The Hive itself is located underground, deep beneath the streets of London. It housed over five hundred technicians, scientists, and support staff who lived and worked underground. Their research was of the highest importance—obviously the nature of it is classified. It is invaluable to the corporation and must be recovered.” _

The Hive sounded exactly like the typical Umbrella facility and from the sounds of it...it seemed as though it had been compromised. Most likely one of Umbrella's precious, deadly viruses broke out into the Hive and they were here to clean up the mess. It was only a matter of time before one of the corporation's research facilities went bad, and an inevitability that Albert had always been preparing for, but to say he was eager to test his skills at killing B.O.W.s and otherwise continuing to survive the virus would have been an all out lie. Albert inwardly shuddered when he pictured what lay beneath them in those halls. As worrisome as that was Albert was more confused about why Umbrella was leaving something so serious to untested agents. It was true that sending in a pack of Weskers could kill two birds with one stone—reclaiming the Hive and testing the capacities of the Wesker Children—but that was only on the condition that they could handle such a task. Umbrella didn't like those kinds of risks, not when “invaluable” research was at stake. Something wasn't adding up.

_ “ _ _ Recently the Hive was testing out an extremely advanced computer operating system which was in control of ninety percent of the operations throughout the facility.” _ the recorded voice continued unhindered by Albert's unspoken questions. _ “This operating system, know as the Red Queen, was as close to artificial intelligence as the corporation has yet seen and was put into use before proper testing could be preformed in an effort to speed up results.” _

Albert could almost see this individual smiling.

_ “As one could expect, something went wrong. At around 0800 yesterday, the Red Queen inexplicably went homicidal and systematically started activating all the facility's defenses, killing everyone inside and sealing off the Hive.” _

Well...that was different. A killer computer was miles away from B.O.W.s...

_ “The Red Queen cannot be operated from outside the Hive and multiple attempts to breech the facility's main entrance within the city proper have failed. This is where you come in.” _

The focus of the image changed to highlight a building marked as “mansion” on the map which seemed to be attached to the lowermost level of the Hive by some sort of impossibly long tunnel; one Albert sincerely hoped that wouldn't have to walk. According to the scale that would be quite a feat.

_ “The mansion in which you now stand serves as a back entrance to the Hive. You will be taking the bullet train connecting the two locations and make your way through the Hive to the Red Queen's chamber.” _

In time with his words the diagram depicted a highlighted imagine of the bullet train—which eased Albert's fears about aching feet—moving down the tunnel followed by the illuminated path that would take them to a room marked “Red Queen's Chamber” located about mid level within the Hive.

_ “There you will disable the computer system and thereby reopening the Hive. Everything you need to do this task is located on the train, and after reading your files, I am aware that there are several of you technologically savvy enough to operate the equipment provided and breach any extra security precautions the Red Queen has in place.” _

Albert briefly glanced around him, wondering exactly who these Weskers were. Certainly not him. True he knew his was around a computer but this was far beyond his own abilities. Speaking of abilities, how was a quick mission to disable a facility's operating system a good test of anyone's tallents—aside from those who would be doing the actual disabling? Either the defense system the Red Queen operated was far beyond anything Albert was imagining or there was a lot more down there than this Wesker was letting on.

_ “Once your mission is complete you will leave through the Hive's main entrance via the express elevator which we will be able to control and operate from the outside once the Red Queen has been shut down.” _

A straight shaft running through the entirety of the complex and connecting it to the city above was highlighted on the projection.

_ “There you will be debriefed by Umbrella staff. Any necessary followup actions will be determined at that point.” _

Suddenly the image flickered and died and the blank wall onto which it had been projected split down the center and began to open, sliding back to reveal a hidden passage—of course this mansion would have secret passages and hidden rooms just as her sister in the Arklay Mountains did. The passage was revealed to be a set of downward leading, widely set, stone steps, surrounded by unfinished rough walls cut from the same material.

_ “I and the rest of the corporation wish you the best of luck on your mission. It would be in your best interest not to disappoint us.” _

Once again silence proliferated the hall. The recording had obviously finished and their mission started, but Albert certainly wasn't going to be the one leading the charge into unknown territory. Not when so much about this mission felt fabricated. Who knew what was down there. It seemed many of the other Weskers shared his dislike of being first. All of them remained unmoving until one of the Weskers closest to the passage spoke up, his stern voice cutting like a knife through the quiet foyer. He was a tall and powerfully build African, though his accent suggested he'd grown up in the states. The way he handled and moved with his weapon, as well as the extremely short crew cut he wore his hair in made Wesker think he had some form of military background, a history that many of the Weskers around him looked as though they shared. “You heard the man,” he clipped, gesturing with a quick jerk of his hand towards the stairs, “let's go.” 

This Wesker's prompting seemed to be all the incentive the others needed. Without another word, the rest of the group followed him into the revealed tunnel.

It wasn't long, maybe fifteen or twenty steps before they were walking out into a large pillared room. It looked like it was built around the structural foundation of the mansion, thus explaining all the strangely placed supports. The air of the room felt damp and heavy, obviously exempt from the mansion's air conditioning system. The room's walls were the same as the ones in the connecting tunnel: Unfinished, rough, and lacking all the typical Umbrella grandeur he was so used to. It almost reminded him of the passage connecting the Spencer Mansion to the courtyard, though this one was arguably less disturbing as it didn't contain the bottomless pit or the hanging sarcophagus containing the bones of Lisa's long dead mother. 

Albert smirked. At least that was one thing he could be grateful for. No more dealing with Lisa Trevor and her face stealing obsession. Of course, this Hive might contain something worse—not that he could imagine anything much worse than Lisa, but this was Umbrella they were talking about. Albert refused to entertain the idea that the worst thing they'd find down here was a homicidal computer. In accordance with such thoughts, he'd already long clicked off the safeties on both his weapons and had left his handgun holster unclipped, hand resting gingerly on the grip. 

The cement floor was covered in a sporadic array of boxes, crates, and barrels, all sporting the Umbrella logo and most the biohazard signs the red and white hexagon had become almost synonymous with. Albert carefully picked his way through them with the other Weskers as they made their way over to the train, sitting like some stationary behemoth in the back corner of the room, its engine, completely silent, also wearing a red and white, oh so familiar banner. Albert took slightly longer than the other Wesker's to reach his target due to the fact that he was looking at the seemingly innocuous crates and boxes carefully enough to determine if any of them might be transporting some kind of B.O.W.. So far nothing so sinister, but he did recognize a large container of what was unmistakably the vector component necessary to the manufacturing of the T-Virus—not that he was expecting anything less.

Perhaps most interesting on his scan of the room was the large digital clock bolted to the wall by the stairs. It looked to be counting down to something. Something only four hours, forty eight minutes, and thirty five seconds away. It might have been nothing, but believing every little thing could possibly be something important is what had gotten him this far. Albert took a few seconds to set his watch to seven twenty two ensuring that his clock would reach twelve at roughly the same time this clock read zero.

A loud screeching sound indicated that someone had pulled open the metal doors to the locomotive—in particular a heavily muscled Wesker at least twice Albert's size that looked like he could have ripped the doors off instead of sliding them to the side if he'd wanted to. As soon as they were open, the Weskers starting filing inside, and once Albert was ensured that their wasn't anything particularly nasty waiting for him, he followed.

The inside of the train was just as barren and unfurnished as everything else down here. There wasn't anything even resembling seating, not even at the front of the car where a conductor would have sat. 

One of his slighter built experimental brothers was digging through a large steal box that had been conspicuously placed in the center of the floor, carefully examining several obviously electronic devices. When he noticed Albert's stare he quickly looked up and replaced the part he'd been handling. “Must be the software we need for the Queen,” he commented, sweeping some of his rather unruly brown hair out of his face. “Doesn't look too complicated.”

Albert just gave him a curt nod before directing his attention to the front. Laura—or rather, who he thought might be Laura—was there, eying the train's controls surreptitiously with another Wesker, one he'd shared a jet with on the way in—tall, lean, dark hair, sharp calculating features, and to Albert's dismay, holding a lit cigaret between his thin lips, uncaring of how the smoke collected in the enclosed space. Albert thought he'd detected that acrid smell earlier...

The Wesker scoffed after taking a long drought of his cigaret, releasing the smoke as he spoke. “Any of your special skills involve operating this thing?” His voice was harsh and condescending with an almost hidden New Yorker's tinge to it. “'Cause if none of us can drive this monster we're not getting too far now are we?”

“Well yeah, I think I prob'ly could do that.” 

The deep southern accent coming out of the young female Wesker behind him—the same one he'd noted earlier on the plane with the twin low set pigtails and the pink hair highlights—caused him, and a few others, to do a double take. Not only had he not expected that voice to come out of a Wesker's mouth, but the barely five foot five young woman looked as though she'd be talking like a preppy sorority girl, not some deep southern hick.

“I mean, I ain't nev'r drove nothin' like this here 'bullet train' before, but a train's a train right? An' I've conducted a few in the past, military grade freighters and such. So it couldn't be, like, too hard now could it?”

By this point Albert wasn't the only one staring at the mostly brunette as she made her way to the controls.

“Anyhow, I'm willin' ta giver her a whirl...ya know, unless one a' y'all knows better,” she looked a little sheepishly at the sternly staring faces around her, waiting for some kind of affirmative to continue. 

The tall smoking Wesker raised a skeptic eyebrow at the eager looking girl that barely made it up to his chest. He and many of the others—Albert included—looked as though they were hoping someone else would speak up and take her place. When no one did, the Italian Wesker sighed, plucking the cigarette from between his lips. 

“Okay, cupcake, but if we don't get there in one piece, our mission will be the least of your worries.”

She just smiled, completely ignoring the threat. “Oh if I crashed the train I don' think I'd be worryin' 'bout nothin' anymore. You ev'r see a train crash? Man, that's nasty business.”

She started laying her hands on the controls, completely impervious to the scathing look the smoking Wesker was giving her. 

“But don't y'all worry 'bout it none. It's actually not that hard ta drive a train. Ya don' even have ta steer. The track does that fer ya.”

“Great...” he sneered. “You really know how to instill a man's confidence.”

Just as the other Wesker's sarcasm had suggested, Albert wasn't exactly convinced either. Then again who was he to judge. He couldn't even drive a car. In the end it turned out he didn't have to worry. The southern Wesker only took a few minutes to get the hulking train moving down the tracks, seeming to have a better knowledge of the controls than she'd let on.

Without any further delay, Albert was being delivered hasty into the devil's den in the company of brothers and sisters by name that he didn't even trust to operate their method of transport, let alone with his life. Not that he had much choice in the matter. In Umbrella, choice was a luxury most couldn't afford, and in the rare times they could, it was usually death in varying degrees of pain that served as the options. Albert was determined not to find his own down in the bowels of the Hive. Unfortunately, that meant he'd probably have to end up working with, maybe even relying on some of the Wesker's around him, most of whom looked just as pleased as he did about the prospect. 

This...was going to be a very long and difficult night. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you've enjoyed this last update. As you may have noticed, I'm giving several nods to the first Resident Evil live action movie-more specifically I'm using the title's backdrop as my stage as well as a few plot devises such as the Red Queen. Aside from that, everything that happens down in the Hive will be completely original. I just through it created a good playground for my characters as well as the perfect set up for the culling of the chosen Wesker children.
> 
> I'm both excited and nervous about all the original characters that need to be added for this part of the story to progress, some of which have already been introduced, others that will show up in the next chapter. As such, I'd love to hear reactions. They'd be very helpful at this point in time.
> 
> I know I keep teasing you with the reunion of the Wesker twins and I promise it is coming soon. Not in the next chapter, not directly at least, but soon. 
> 
> Finally (and please excuse the plug), if you're looking for something to read in the mean time as well as some insight into a very far off pairing that will eventually be taking place in this story (Wesker/Krauser), my sister and I our co-authoring a semi-short Resident Evil fic: Lone Wolves, for one of her school assignments (man I wish my classes would have let me write fanfictions for homework...). We only have a month to do it so updates should come pretty fast. You can find it on my AO3 account or on her FF account here: https://www.fanfiction.net/s/10178142/1/Lone-Wolves
> 
> -Asiera


	20. PG16A/W: Lights, Security Cameras, Death

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Surrounded by strangers all bearing the same name, Albert descends deeply into the facility known as the Hive. Their mission is to destroy the Red Queen, but she will not go quietly. Countless dangers lurk within the Hive, just waiting for the proper trigger to be set loose upon the intruders. The trigger is about to be given. Hell will soon be unleashed on the Wesker Children.

**Project W: Third Cycle**

**PG16A/W: Lights, Security Cameras, Death**

_ April 6 _ _ th _ _ , 1991; The Hive, B-15: _

True to her words, their Southern conductor got them safely to their destination. Albert timed their several mile trip down the dark tunnel at around nine minutes by his watch that was slowly counting down with the clock they'd passed in the station. Whatever they had to do down here, Albert wanted to be done and clear of the facility in four hours and twenty eight minutes. Though somehow...he doubted that was going to happen. Not that he was relying on whatever horrors that dwelt in this facility to emerge only after his watch hit 00:00:00. He very much doubted that they'd wait so long to rear their, most likely, rotted heads. It was safer to approach this entire mission as though some form of death lurked around every corner. Albert wasn't going to let his guard down until he was completely clear of the European facility known as the Hive...maybe even longer. With Umbrella you could never be too sure about these things. In all reality, he'd probably never be able to let his guard down again. Better to be plagued by the constant presence of stress in his life then to die a horrible excruciating death at the hands of Umbrella and her monsters.

So far their journey had been unhindered, a good thing since he really hadn't wanted to deal with any B.O.W.s while speeding relentlessly down the narrow tracks. But now the train was slowing, guided to a steady chug by the Southern Wesker, meaning they were arriving at their destination and were probably soon to meet whatever forces had caused the Hive to be abandoned in the first place. A crazed super computer was the last thing on his mind as the doors opened and...absolutely nothing greeted them.

From his position behind the dark skinned Wesker who had retaken his position of leadership from earlier, the brunette touch-me-not female he'd nearly bumped into when they'd first arrived, and the hulking brute who'd opened the train doors, Albert could see that the station was completely, disturbingly empty.

Following Captain Wesker, the rest of the Children disembarked the train, some more cautiously than others. Many including Albert had their guns drawn, and under the signals from their self appointed leader, were sweeping the room. The station was largely similar to the one they'd left from, though arguably much bigger. It was made from the same rough concrete and supported by identical thick stone pillars. Sacked in various, semi-organized plies were a vast array of shipping crates that nearly reached the stone ceiling in several places. There was no sign of life in this place. It felt abandoned...and not just recently. The ghost station gave off the feeling that no one had set foot in it for some time and the significant layer of dust only added to his suspicions.

Once Albert was fairly certain the room was indeed clear of any hostiles, he holstered his pistol and advanced towards the nearest pile of crates where he brushed off the dust obscuring the metal box's shipping label.

It was dated three months ago.

It wasn't as though Albert was surprised, but he couldn't stop the little chill that went through him. This wasn't a crisis event that had just taken place yesterday. The dust covered date spoke of something more sinister: a premeditated plan.

How did he know this? Though it was true that the cooperation wasn't known for cleaning up its messes, the descriptive sticker on the crate indicated that it was packed with “progenitor carriers” AKA the flower commonly referred to as Stairway to the Sun; the one that only grew in a certain region of Africa. They were hard to get, extremely expensive to order from Umbrella's South African branch, and very difficult to maintain during the shipping process. These days they were usually cryogenically frozen for transport, but the box Albert had been scrutinizing wasn't even cool to the touch, meaning the flowers and the, in this state, innocuous virus had long since expired. Umbrella was filthy rich, but there was no way they would waste such a valuable asset. Albert knew that from experience.

Back when he'd been working with Marcus, a box much like this had been transported to the wrong area of the facility and wasn't aptly handled. As a result, the flowers had been lost and Dr. Marcus had flown into a rage that lasted all the weeks that particular line of research had been set back. The people he'd deemed responsible hadn't been seen since the evening the mess had been discovered.

“Hey Blondie, China-man!”

Wesker nearly turned around and shot the Wesker who just yelled at him from a few feet away. He was sure he'd jumped, as had the second Wesker he hadn't even noticed who seemed to have also been examining the outdated shipping crates cloaked in the deep shadows to his right.

“You guys looking for souvenirs or something?”

Arrogance and superiority poured off this individual in higher amounts than it did many of the other Weskers Albert already had the displeasure of meeting. And that would have been fine if he hadn't just severely startled Albert, didn't even look old enough to have even graduated college, and wasn't directing his condescending gaze and tone towards someone who it was painfully obvious was his superior.

This individual reminded Albert of himself when he was a lot younger; far too full of himself, and a lot stupider about the way things worked. It severely bothered him now to realized how ridiculous and bratty he must have seemed to all those around so many years ago. Though to be fair, he had been in charge of a facility back then where all he had to do was snap his fingers and you became his next test subject. Albert very much doubted that this boy had ever held that kind of power.

“Hardly,” Albert responded, only allowing a fraction of the iciness he was feeling to come through in his voice. He wasn't planning to share his observations yet, especially not with this Wesker. He doubted it would change much of anything anyways and he hadn't missed the security cameras around the room, their red recording light still flashing. On the more than likely chance someone was listening—so called super computer or Umbrella agent—it was best to keep a few cards up his sleeves.

“We're merely observing our surroundings.” Albert turned to see who'd he'd included in this “we,” and suddenly the brat was the last thing on his mind. He knew this Wesker. It took him a second or two to place him as the oriental Wesker who'd been a member of the U.B.C.S. trainees and had gotten himself mixed up in the chaos of testing Marcus's failed B.O.W.s. Hiro Wesker.

“Whatever,” the brat scoffed, “Just hurry up, we're moving out.”

Albert nodded, not even looking at him as he did.

Seeming to noticed his stare, Hiro turned his brown eyes, hidden partially by the unruly strands of his blue black hair. There was a tension filled pause before Hiro broke it, his voice coming out soft, almost like a loud whisper that contained a hint of a Japanese accent. “The boxes are too old.”

Albert blinked in surprise but then nodded. “Yes.”

Hiro returned his nod and moved past him, deciding to turn at the last second to address him a second time. “Good to see you are still breathing too.” With that he was gone, disappearing seamlessly among the other Weskers, his short stature and small build adding to his ability to slip away from Albert's sight.

First Laura now Hiro. It seemed he might never quite escape his past or the people in it.

Shaking his head to clear it, Albert lengthened his already impressive stride to quickly catch up with the other Weskers, following the group out of the station, an into the Hive proper.

The map they'd been given was easy enough to follow and though now, more than ever, Albert was expecting to run into some form of hideous B.O.W. Around every corner, so far, he'd only been met with stainless white halls. Perhaps most would have relaxed slightly, but so far the emptiness was only proving to unnerve him further. Between the outdated boxes of deadly flowers, what he knew about Umbrella and her tricks, coupled with the security cameras that were not only on but  subtly following their movements as they progressed through the first level towards the elevator, Albert  _ knew _ something bad was waiting for them around one of these corners and he was honestly sick and tired of waiting for it to make its move. 

The quiet halls made no sense. If there had ever been some sort of disaster, like a viral leak, there should be some sign of the chaos that would have ensued, unless Umbrella had already cleaned it up, which also made no sense as there was no point in sending them to a once infected but now safe facility.

Assuming for one second that Albert bought the whole computer gone crazy story, which he didn't, that meant it was this Red Queen who was watching them through the security feed. If that was true, she knew they were here and, if she was on “homicidal mode,” why hadn't she tried to kill them too? And where were the bodies of everyone else she supposedly dispatched of? No, that theory was far too full of holes to hold any water. First off, there was no such thing as artificial intelligence—there weren't superposed to be such things as zombies either, but he could explain their existence, not to mention had seen them first hand, so zombies hardly sounded as far fetched as something stolen from the Terminator's script. This was man made. Someone from Umbrella was in control and watching them.

The thing Albert couldn't figure out was why? Unless...unless the only reason they were here was to test the effectiveness of some new virus or B.O.W., like what he and the other scientists had done to Hiro and his team... That was something Albert didn't even want to contemplate, but right now, it seemed like the most likely possibility.

That got rid of the why, how, and what the only question now was when? Albert had several unpleasant guesses on that one too.

Not that knowing changed what he was doing at the moment. It was impossible that whoever was running this experiment would just let him walk back to the train and leave. If he wanted to get out alive, he'd have to face whatever monster Umbrella had built and destroy it. So much for being invaluable to the company...he supposed he'd given up that status when he left Birkin and their ground breaking research behind. He'd known the path he was taking was a dangerous one, but he refused to let it destroy him. He was going to survive this, he was going to get the answers he was searching for, and he was going to get his revenge. Nothing was going to stand in his way.

Except maybe the fifteen flights of stairs they had to transverse in order to get to the lowermost level where the queen's chamber was located—of course the elevators were “offline.” It also certainly didn't help that spurred on by some unseen force they were all persuaded to practically race down all of them. Even though it was downhill and he had undergone significant prior training, he found himself a bit winded. He was thankful no one had tripped and broken their neck or worse, had toppled into the rest of them and sent them all tumbling down the stairs like dominoes. Albert nearly prayed that once they did...whatever down in the control room that the promised express elevator would work again, though somehow...he seriously doubted it.

Once they'd exited the stairwell, still with no adverse events to speak of aside from a minor leg cramp or two, they turned down a corridor that would supposedly lead them through a few labs—something Albert was not looking forward to—and then into the Queen's Chamber. Or that would have been the case...had said labs not been completely flooded.

“This...is gonna be a problem...” remarked the brat unhelpfully.

“Yep,” responded the smoker. “The map says we go right through here to get to that bad-ass computer.”

“That's not happening,” Laura said grimacing as she took in the murky water that filled the glass enclosed chamber—very thick glass to hold back so much fluid—almost all the way to its ceiling. Mostly unidentifiable debris floated through dirty liquid making it impossible to see the entirety of the lab area.

Albert regarded the scene cautiously. This was the first abnormality they'd come across—aside from the facility's abandoned nature—since they'd arrived, and it was a big one. Albert noted the several seemingly insignificant holes, each a mere pinprick in the thick glass, which were continuously leaking a tiny stream of the brown tinged water out into the hallway. That coupled with the red fire ax leaning against the inside of the glass lead Albert to believe that someone had been trying to get out. Tried and, by the looks of things, failed.

“Is there an alternate rout?” Captain Wesker asked the smoker who had yet to run out of those damn cigarettes.

“Hmm...” he muttered scanning the map. “It'll take a bit longer, but if we take this hallway in the opposite direction, it loops around through...I guess it's some sort of dining hall.” He looked up, then we'll be back at the Queen Chamber.”

“And right next to the express elevator,” Laura added, pointing to an area on the map Albert couldn't see.

“Then what are we waiting for?” asked the brat rhetorically. “Let's move out or whatever.” He then proceeded to push past a few Weskers on his way down their new path.

The rest of the Weskers followed his lead, including Albert, though he did it a bit begrudgingly. A sudden yelp halted their progress and caused Albert to draw his weapon again. As it turned out, the computer geek had slipped and fallen in the several inches of water that had collected on the floor and was staring wide eyed into the murky depths of the labs. Floating slowly into view of the glass was a corpse of what had probably once been an attractive female. Her skin was wrinkled by long periods of water exposure and her lab coat equally dilapidated by it. It was a haunting image to be sure, but Albert had seen things far worse. The only reason this drowned female bothered him was because she looked far less rotted than she should have. Her decay was in keeping with the time line the Wesker who'd briefed them had provided, not the ones the dust and outdated shipping labels had. Come to think of it, if this had happened months ago like he's originally thought, shouldn't more of that water, he was trying to avoid as much as possible due to possibility of infection, have leaked out into the hall? Albert didn't like it when facts didn't add up.

“She's dead,” gasped the tech savvy Wesker as he picked himself up and moved as far as he could from the glass.

Touch-Me-Not snorted at her frightened teammate. “Oh you've got to be kidding me,” she muttered scathingly.

“Uh yeah,” answered the brat. “Computer went homicidal remember? Killed everyone down here?” He sighed and continued to move down the hall. “Geez, you act like you've never seen a dead chick before.”

The Wesker looked embarrassed as he adjusted his now slightly damp bag. “Sorry,” he muttered.

“It's okay, man,” consoled the Southerner, clapping him comfortingly on the shoulder. “Jus' gotta pull it tagether, okay?”

He nodded and followed the rest of them down the hall.

Albert gave the out of place corpse one last glance before following them. Things just kept getting better and better didn't they?

Turns out the mess hall wasn't a mess hall at all, though it certainly was a mess, one that made Albert want to turn around and leave back the way they'd came. The team of Weskers had just walked into a massive B.O.W. breeding lab.

Unlike the ones where he'd worked, the test tubes where not transparent, they were encased in metal, thus not allowing the confused Weskers staring at all the rows upon rows of breeding pods to comprehend the horrors within. That didn't stop Albert from recognizing them for what they were.

“Dining hall B?” questioned their leader sceptically.

“Uh...that's what the map said, but I sure as hell wouldn't wanna eat here,” answered the smoker, glancing at his map again to confirm his own words.

“What in the hell are all these things anyway...” whispered the Southerner, her trepidation staining her accent.

Touch-Me-Not apparently decided it might be a good idea to take a look closer into the chambers, and was standing up on her tip toes to try and see through the grate at the top.

“Don't!” hissed Albert urgently. Had none of them ever worked in research before? “No one touch any of the pods and avoid the cords and tubing at their bases,” Albert ordered sternly.

“Do you know that these things are?” asked their captain evenly.

Albert hesitated before eventually responding. “Yes, and trust me, you don't want what's inside them coming out.”

“And what exactly is in there?” asked Touch-Me-Not in an annoyed fashion.

“Most assuredly B.O.W.s of some sort.”

“B O what?” inquired the brat.

“Bio Organic Weapons.” provided a stern gruff voice from a Wesker who had up until this point remained silent. He was fairly tall and built though not to the unbelievability of the brute. Everything from the way he held him self up to his calm but intense expression spoke of years of experience. “Umbrella's favorite pass time. Listen to what he said and give them a wide birth. B.O.W.s are the last thing we need to deal with right now.”

Albert nodded to him, noting that so far this Wesker and Hiro were the only ones who seemed to know what was really going on. Even Laura didn't seem to fully understand the gravity of what was happening. Albert chanced a glance in her direction and was surprised to find her purposely looking anywhere but at him... Then perhaps, she did remember him, though why this would be her reaction he wasn't sure.

Albert redirected his gaze to the other Weskers and continued. “The pods probably haven't been maintained in quite sometime so they are likely highly unstable. Our best course of action is to leave them be.” _and pray to whatever gods you worship that Umbrella isn't going to open them all up as a part of this test._

“If they're so damn dangerous, why can't we just blow 'em to kingdom come?” inquired the smoker, giving the nearest chamber a cautious glance.

Albert chuckled. “Do you really have enough explosives with you to blow this entire room?”

“Well no but-”

“Even if you did, depending on the caliber of the experiments and their developmental stage, the explosion might not even damage them enough to render them harmless.”

The brat laughed, folding his arms. “Well aren't you the expert all of a sudden.”

Albert couldn't help giving him at least a mildly scathing look. “Yes, I suppose you could say that.”

“Then can't you render them harmless, or whatever?”

Albert sighed in exasperation. “Sure, if I had a few hours, access to the right equipment, and could get a hold of the research files telling me what's actually in these things. I don't see any of those requirements being met anytime soon.”

“Um, ah hate ta be the clueless one here,” cut in the southerner, effectively ending whatever argument had been about to take place, “but what exactly are, uh, 'Bio Organic Weapons?' Kinda sounds like somethin' out a' a movie if ya ask me.”

Albert felt his patience wavering. Was it really possible that the majority of the Weskers here were clueless as to Umbrella's true colors? “To save time, and put it in layman's terms, monsters. That would be the best way to describe what's in these pods.”

She slightly sidled away from the nearest metal tank. “No kidin'?”

Albert gave her a very fake smile. “Afraid not.”

There captain stopped any further questions. “Okay, we're all wasting time. The objective is just to the other side of this room. You heard the man. Let's just give whatever's in these things a wide birth and continue on with the mission. Move out, and tread carefully.”

Surprisingly, all of them fell in line and did as Captain Wesker had instructed.

Even more surprising, none of the capsules opened up to release their blood thirsty cargo. Everyone made it out of the room in one piece leaving them only one hallway away from the Red Queen's Chamber and their target.

The corridor separating them from the Red Queen was narrow and looked like it was composed entirely of rows upon rows of some sort of strange lighting system set behind numerous glass panels. It was everywhere. The walls, the ceiling, even the floor. Even with all the strange lights off, it gave the entire room a very otherworldly feel and managed to send a few shivers down Albert's spine. Currently, their only view of the room was through a small window set in the metal door baring their path into the hall, and via several huge monitors placed around the anti-chamber, depicting the small hallway from several angles. Albert didn't see the cameras responsible for these views but guessed they were set somewhere behind the strange glass. The whole setup was quite strange, why show them the inside of the weird hallway? Why not the inside of the Red Queen's Chamber?

At the other end of the hall was a similar metal door, leaving the group what looked to be only two more obstacles before the conclusion of their mission. But when was Umbrella ever that simple? Sure, it only looked like the worst the short hallway could do was blind them with it's strangely placed lighting system, but on the same note, all a corpse looked like it could do was rot and Umbrella had certainly changed that.

Truth be told, Albert didn't know what the bizarre circuitry could do, and he sure as hell wasn't going to be the first one to find out. As such, he took a few steps back and watched as the others attempted to get the door open, one nervous eye glancing back towards the door they'd just came from that was all that was separating them from a room full of dormant B.O.W.s.

For several minutes a few of the more muscular Weskers attempted to force the heavy metal door open, a process that looked as though it would involve pushing it up into the ceiling. They were of course unsuccessful. Thankfully, their self proclaimed computer genius was also glued to one of the computer monitors outside the door, and though Albert couldn't being to follow or understand the massive strings of code he was imputing as his fingers flew across the keyboard, it seemed he was making more progress then the Wesker's trying to muscle their way in.

Albert didn't seriously take any interest until Laura made her way over to the madly typing Wesker. “Can you get in?” she asked once it looked like he was at a point that didn't require too much concentration, though who could tell really?

The skittish Wesker, Albert was beginning to believe couldn't possibly have gone though the same physical training as he had, nearly jumped out of his skin at the gentle interruption.

“Uh, yeah, I uh, think so,” he responded once he realized it was only her. His eyes never even left the glowing screen while he responded. “The Red Queen has a lot of defenses in place but...I'm pretty sure I can break through.”

The smoker scoffed. “I guess it's a good thing Umbrella kept this little shrimp around after all.”

Laura sent him a dirty look. “It's certainly more effective then smashing our way in.”

His smirk only widened at her retort. “I prefer explosives over brute strength any day, but I'm willing to let the stick play around on the keyboard a little longer before I light this bitch of a computer up.”

“I'm sure that won't be necessary,” commented their captain sternly.

Albert thankfully didn't see the stick of dynamite or its equivalent that the smoker had just eluded to. However, he was fairly certain that someone that obsessed with explosives shouldn't have picked up the habit of smoking. It seemed like a dangerous combination.

As it turned out, they never found out if the smoker could have blown the doors open or not, because the computer geek pulled through a few moments later. The computer screen turned from red to a welcoming blue, then lock on the door clicked open and receded up into the ceiling with a low rumbling sound. The identical door at the hall's opposite end followed suit giving them a clear path to the Red Queen's chamber.

“Nice job, Man!” cheered the Southerner, clapping him on the shoulder before taking a careful look down the corridor. “Um, y'all sure it's safe ta walk down that? I mean, it don't exactly look welcomin'...”

“All the Red Queen's defenses are down. It's perfectly safe,” assured the computer geek.

Albert didn't buy that anything from Umbrella could ever be called safe and was happily waiting for volunteer’s to prove it before setting a foot into the hallway that was obviously the furthest thing from both welcoming and safe. Maybe the Italian Wesker would go and Albert could be free of his noxious cloud.

No such luck. Their dark skinned leader was the first in, followed by one of the more ex-military looking Wesker's who'd been straining at the door a few moments ago, and to Albert's dismay, Laura. When she stepped over the threshold, he almost didn't manage to hold back his objections. In a few moments he'd wish he had of voiced them.

The three managed to take about four steps before something bad happened.

Out of the corner of his eye, Albert saw the once blue screen turn instantly red. Then the doors slammed shut, trapping the three Weskers inside the now obviously dangerous hallway.

The initial flash blinded everyone present to what came next. It didn't however deafen them to the blood curdling screams of the nameless Wesker who had accompanied their leader and Laura into Umbrella's latest death trap.

By the time Albert's eyes had adjusted to the flash of every light in the deadly hallway flashing on, several Weskers separated from their comrades in the hall were yelling and screaming commands incoherently. The brute who had man handled the train doors open was desperately attempting to do the same to the unyielding metal door of the hallway from where the worst of the screams were originating. Albert directed his gaze to the monitors set up around the room, and instantly knew why they had been placed in here. It was so they could witness their teammates die.

He saw the nameless Wesker crumpled on the floor, writhing in agony as he clutched, screaming at the stumps that had used to be his legs. His amputated lower limbs lay at his sides. The areas that should have been gushing arterial and venous blood were burned to a blacked charcoal color. Whatever had sliced his legs off also effectively cauterizing the terrible wound.

Albert's eyes immediately left the doomed Wesker and found Laura on a different monitor. She had just landed on her feet, having presumably jumped over whatever had amputated the wailing Wesker's legs at the knees.

More screams added themselves to the mix, the Italian Wesker's cigarette dropped still smoking from his lips, and panic spread like wildfire, manifesting as a cacophony of indistinguishable words that had barely been uttered before a long, thin, wickedly glowing, diagonal line of light materialized at the far end of the room and began zooming towards the trapped Weskers.

Laura threw herself towards the left wall and into a crouch so that the deadly beam would fly over her. The captain who had lead his experimental siblings to their death barely stumbled back from the screaming Wesker in order to fall out of the way of the beam.

The third man didn't stand a chance. Already blinded by panic and agony, he didn't even see the second laser before it passed seamlessly through his head, as if it were a knife slicing through butter.

The results were nothing short of sickening. His scream was cut abruptly short, his face locked in an expression of absolute agony. Then, in slow motion, viscous material from his left eye, where the laser had intersected his head at an angle, began to drip down his lifeless face. Seconds later, the upper right portion of his scull slid to the floor with a disgusting squelching sound, his toneless body following moments later, landing on the ground in a bloodless mess of body parts that looked like something out of a horror film; something impossible to exist in reality, but instead was the farthest thing from fiction. This terrifying room was very real and it was almost inevitable that the other two trapped Weskers would share the same fate in the next few seconds...including Laura.

The panic was tangible as it escalated past any level of reasonability, sweeping over everyone present, filling the room with a din of curse words and barked orders all tossed violently towards the one Wesker who could possibly do anything about this hellish situation. Their screams only served to aggravate the situation as his hands mindlessly pounded the keyboard and his own panicked curses continued to build in urgency. It seemed very unlikely that he would be saving anyone in this state.

Looking back from the computer screen to the monitors depicting the events inside the hellish chamber showed that the lasers were wasting no time. A third beam materialized vertically and began flying towards the remaining two Weskers much faster then the previous two had, barely giving Laura and the captain time to dive out of its way. Thankfully, all it managed to do was slice the dead Wesker's body in two revealing a disgusting mess of blackened organ and bone, but the room was far from finished. Before the current ray had even vanished, another sprang into existence, shooting horizontally towards them from behind at about chest level.

Albert couldn't even comprehend how Laura managed to dodge this blow in time. Perhaps she had heard the buzzing or somehow seen some sort of reflection in the confusing walls or ceiling. Either way she managed to drop to the floor at the last moment and yell a warning to her surviving companion in time for him to do the same.

The now panting Weskers were given a few seconds reprieve before the next laser appeared, shooting across the floor as though it intended on repeating its opening gambit.

With no intention of losing his lower legs, the captain who was first on the chopping block, jumped, intending to vault over the beam, something that would have worked had the laser not suddenly switched its height as though it was anticipating his movements or worse...being manually controlled by someone who could. Instead, their leader offered his neck to the unforgiving ray which promptly removed his head. His body fell heavily to the floor like a marionette whose strings had just been severed. The head followed, crashing to the ground with a sickening crunching sound before rolling across the floor which was becoming littered with body parts.

Albert felt his body held fast in fear's immobilizing grip, In retrospect, he'd find it ridiculous that he cared enough about this girl that he'd met once upon another lifetime to be so fearful for her safety, but in the moment, all he could think about was the fact that she was going to die and there was nothing he could do to prevent it.

In his peripheral vision, he saw Hiro push aside the not so computer savvy Wesker out of the way and take his place at the flashing computer screen. Albert knew Hiro, no matter how good he might be with computers, couldn't possibly stop the deadly beams of light in time to save her. They were getting too fast and too unpredictable.

It enraged him to think that they, in all their strength, intelligence, and firepower could all be so helpless, so powerless against what amounted to no more than fancy lights held behind simple layers of glass.

That's when it struck him, a proverbial light bulb going off in his head (if you're not too apposed to the badly timed pun).

Sometimes brute force did win over brains.

Albert pulled the automatic assault rifle from his shoulder and slammed his way through the clambering idiots and the brutish Wesker who had taken to ramming his broad shoulder against the door in desperation. Once he reached the small window he brought the gun to bear at the glass separating him from Laura.

“Get Down!” he practically screamed at the redhead who was now staring helplessly at a chaotic grid like pattern of lasers that there was no way even the most skilled gymnast could hope to maneuver through.

Though the heavy door had muffled his shout, she heard enough to turn her head slightly, and once she saw his gun, she dropped to the floor, pressing her back to the door frame.

Wesker fired a short burst point blank at the glass which shattered outwards in a fantastic display. He then proceeded to empty an entire clip into the surrounding walls and ceiling, destroying as many of the fancy lights and mirrors that gave birth to the deadly rays of light as he could. Glass rained down all around the ducking girl, causing her to have to shield her face from the downpour of shards.

Despite the destruction, Albert knew it might not be enough, if he missed just one Laura could parish and this angle made it very difficult to ensure complete annihilation of the deadly device.

Suddenly Wesker felt himself being shoved aside as he had done the others before, his uncontrolled fire thankfully only pouring into the ceiling of the laser room before he got his finger off the trigger. He turned in time to see the smoker toss in what looked like a blue colored grenade. He didn't even have time to shout in protest before the device went off, filling the room with a loud bang and bright flash.

Albert recognized it instantly as a flash bang, a low powered explosive that effectively broke the remaining glass, rendering the tunnel a harmless pile of shattered glass and sparking electronics that could do no worse then cut Laura a little. Laura was safe.

Several long seconds passed filled with nothing but the sound of Laura's panicked breathing and the tinkle of occasionally falling glass before Hiro broke through the defense system. The computer beeped happily and the doors withdrew into the ceiling.

Laura backpedaled as quickly as she could out of the death trap, barely giving time for Albert and the smoker to move out of her way. For a brief second he thought he saw something like recognition in her impossibly green eyes before it was replaced by forced indifference. Laura nodded to them both curtly before moving over to the nearest wall on shaky legs where she collapsed, head between her knees.

The long spell of aftermath silence was finally interrupted by the Italian Wesker, but only after he'd took a long drag from a newly lit cigarette. “Next time, I say we just let me blow it up.”

Albert was almost inclined to agree with him, as it seemed most the surrounding Weskers wanted to do. Unfortunately, based on everything he's already seen, Albert doubted he actually had enough explosives on him to allow them to blast through every challenge that present itself to them.

Albert looked from Laura's shaking form to the room at the other end of the decimated hallway, its interior bathed in a deep red glow. This was only the start of all the horrors to come.

Not a single Wesker made a move to step into the hallway, not that Albert blamed them, that corridor was death and had a smell to match. The overpowering odor of burnt flesh wafted out towards them accompanied by the sick popping sound of human flesh as some of the amputated parts still bubbled from the heat of the lasers.

“You guys know I completely blew out every light, right?” offered the smoker.

“Yeah, well then hows about you go first?” shot back the Southerner, a portion of her good nature having melted away after everything that had just happened.

“Uh, no thanks,” he mumbled around his cigarette.

“Let's make _him_ go first,” he shot the brat gesturing roughly to their very pale computer technician. “Seeing as it was his screw up in the first place.”

Albert was surprised the man didn't faint.

“What, and loose our only chance at shuttin' this Red Queen down? That don't make no sense!” argued the southerner.

“I think China-man could handle it just fine if he got fried.”

Hiro shook his head. “No, I couldn't, not if it's near as complicated as hacking into that room for the first time. I only know the basics. The second time it was much simpler. He was just panicking. Jugging by all the screaming, I'd say many of us were.”

“I-I'm sorry!” blurted the computer geek suddenly. “I swear the defenses were completely inactivated. It's like-like someone reactivated them remotely.”

“And who the hell would do something like that?” shot back Touch-Me-Not. “That other Wesker said they couldn't access the Hive from the outside. That's why we're here. Just admit you fucked up and let's move on and finish this damn mission!”

“I-I'm not saying I didn't!” The techy practically screamed back, his whole form shaking. “They're dead! I can't change that! I'm j-just saying I t-think that there's something else g-going on here!”

Well Albert could have told them all that from the start but they weren't going to get anywhere like this.

“Enough!” cut in the Wesker who'd backed him up in the B.O.W. breeding lab. “We have a mission to do. Let's finish it.”

“You two,” he gestured to the computer geek and Hiro. “come with me. I don't care what happened earlier, all I care about is that you two shut the Red Queen down. Let's move.”

No argument there. Both Weskers followed him into the shattered tunnel, and once the others were sure the doors weren't going to shut again and the lasers weren't going to come back on, they joined them, the smoker admiring his handiwork as he went. To Albert's surprise, right as he himself was entering the tunnel, he saw Laura push herself up and move cautiously towards the entrance.

“You know you could wait out there if you'd rather,” he pointed out, deciding to finally talk to her.

“I'm fine,” she answered curtly, moving passed him without even looking in his direction before proceeding quickly through the trap that had almost killed her.

Albert was positive now that she remembered him...but she seemed to...hate him. Why he wasn't sure, but now probably wasn't the time to think too much about it. Instead he followed her down the corpse ridden hall, trying very hard not to step on the smoking body parts. It wasn't easy and at one point he was forced to step on the rubbery lifeless arm that had once belonged to the nameless Wesker that had been the first victim of this sick room.

By the time he got into the crowded room, both the computer geek and Hiro were standing around a large central device that was at the epicenter of all the humming technology, security monitors, cords, and wires. He'd seen a lot of advanced computers from his days in research, but this one was certainly the largest and most impressive he'd yet witnessed. It literally took up the whole room, leaving many of the Wesker's present unsure of where to step for fear they'd disconnect something important—though that was far preferable to standing anywhere close to the laser room.

Albert watched as the computer geek rapidly put in massive strings of code, much as he had earlier while Hiro stood by with an extremely heavy looking...Albert guessed it was a hard drive. The large piece of equipment seemed even bigger when held by someone of Hiro's stature. That was probably where the new programing from Umbrella was stored. Programing that might just be the death of them. Albert probably would have objected more to their current actions if he didn't already believe Umbrella was in full control of everything that went on down here.

A few more long minutes of seemingly endless typing passed, before a young female’s voice suddenly filled the room, seeming to come from every where around them at once: The Red Queen he presumed.

_“Error.....Error.....Hard error committed......Attempting cash rebuild.......Cash rebuild failed. Attempting reboot.......Reboot failed.....Warning.....Central programing failure.....Shutdown imminent.....”_

“What the hell is that?” questioned the brat, covering his ears against the overly loud noise.

“I believe that would be the Red Queen,” answered the Smoker.

“And are those errors good or...?”

“Yes,” answered the computer geek nervously over his typing. “We're shutting her down so we can reboot her with the coding that's on the hard drive Umbrella gave us. That should give them access to her internal programing.”

_“Shutdown initiated....”_

Suddenly all the computers in the room went dark.

He turned to Hiro. “Okay switch out the central drives.

Hiro nodded and proceeded to do so. Seconds later the humming restarted and the monitors started flickering to life.

_“New core programing detected....... Decrypting....... Downloading...... Installing...... Installing......Installing...... New Programing accepted.....Rewriting.....Initiating Unit W protocol—_

Suddenly all the monitors went red and everyone had a very bad case of déjà vu. 

“And what the hell is happening now!” yelled the smoker over the sudden alarms.

By the confused look on the computer geek's face, he didn't have an answer for him.

_“Error......Warning.....Error.....Security breach detected.......All Firewalls down...... Warning...... Warning...... Warn--”_

Suddenly every light in the room went off and all the electronics stopped their whirring and humming, leaving the room in complete blackness and silence.

“Please tell me you didn't kill us again....” said a voice accompanied by the bobbing of a little red light that represented a lit cigarette.

Before anyone could answer him, all the lights flashed back on and everything seemed to go back to normal function...except for the Red Queen which seemed to be completely dead.

“Perhaps that was supposed to happen....?” asked Hiro cautiously

The techy shook his head. “I'm not sure...” He was pounding repeatedly on the keys in front of him. “The internal system's been completely wiped. All core functions are completely gone.”

“In English?” questioned the brat.

“Well...I hope it was supposed to happen, because the Red Queen is completely non-operational. Who ever is controlling the facility now, it's from an external source and there's nothing I can do to stop it.”

“Maybe that means Umbrella's back in control?” offered Touch-Me-Not.

A few whispers of agreement moved throughout the crowd but Albert had stopped paying attention a long time ago. Yet unnoticed by everyone else in the room, were the chilling words etched across the monitor placed directly to his left at an angle that made it impossible for anyone else to see in their current positions.

_The final test has begun.... Do try not to die, Albert._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AN: And the new chapter is posted! /Flinches/ I know it's been forever, I'm so sorry, please don't hate me! The thing is...I've gotten so much praise for my work that I'm starting my first serious-I-want-to-publish-this original story. I finally got all the frame work and characters developed and I'm going for it. First few chapters have been written so now my goal is, switch between it and Project W until I finish one. So in short, sorry for the wait, but know that I've been writing pretty much the whole time /smiles/.
> 
> Anyways, about the new chapter. I'm super curious to know what you think of my incorporation of the first RE movie in this chapter. Things are going to seriously diverge from the plot of RE1 in the next chapter but there will be a lot of references ect. On that note. Oh my gosh the horrible laser room! That single plot device used to scare me way more than many of the B.O.W.s in the series so I really hope I did it the justice it deserved.
> 
> Also, opinions on the new characters? I'd love to hear it. 
> 
> As usual, I appreciate all comments and concrit. Thank you all for reading.
> 
> -Asiera


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